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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23322985">The Blackjack Boogie</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/luminality/pseuds/luminality'>luminality</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Disco Elysium (Video Game)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Case Fic, Competent!Harry is Very Self-Aware (and uses it to his full advantage), Drama, Friendship, Humor, Jean is still Depressed (but less so), M/M, Mystery, Organized Crime, Secret Identity, Slow Burn, buddy cop, tags will be added as we go along</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 04:06:49</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>112,399</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23322985</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/luminality/pseuds/luminality</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>It was supposed to be a simple case: A crashed motor carriage. Two casualties. A handful of witnesses in a resurrected district. </p>
<p>But as Detectives Harry Du Bois and Jean Vicquemare are about to discover, it's the simple cases that have the most to hide. In the course of one week, they’ll uncover a community-wide conspiracy, descend into the dog-eat-dog world of organized crime, and meet the mysterious mechanic who seems to be at the heart of it all...</p>
<p>(AU where Harry has his sh*t together, Jean's his partner in Martinaise, and Kim isn’t a police officer)</p>
<p>(05/14/2021 - added these wonderful sketches from <a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/jenemange_art">jenemange</a> to <a href="https://i.imgur.com/xzWSUDw.png?1">Chapter 5</a>, <a href="https://i.imgur.com/n2vJI0l.png">Chapter 10</a>, and <a href="https://i.imgur.com/sXDXSqs.jpg">Chapter 14!</a>)</p>
<p>(12/21/2020 - added this <i>fantastic</i> <a href="https://i.imgur.com/CX35Cqo.jpg">Trant/Jean artwork</a> by <a href="https://twitter.com/inescaramujo">caramujo</a> to Chapter 6!)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Harry Du Bois/Kim Kitsuragi, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Titus Hardie/Kim Kitsuragi, Trant Heidelstam/Jean Vicquemare</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>181</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>240</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. A Call in the Night</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p><b>ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN</b> - Nothing.</p><p>There is nothing. Only warm, primordial blackness…</p><p> </p><p><b>YOU</b> - Arby...</p><p>Shut the fuck up and let me sleep.</p><p> </p><p><b>ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN</b> - ...Excuse me?</p><p><b>YOU</b> - You heard what I said. I just had a long day at work and I want to get a solid eight hours tonight, so stop the doom n' gloom and just let. Me. <em> Sleep </em>. </p><p><b>ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN</b> - But Harry-boy, I worked hard on this delicious diatribe! It’s made from the finest ingredients, drawn up from the cool, dark cellar of your subconscious---all that seething anger and rage that you so violently repressed during your interrogation with that snot-nosed punk today...</p><p><b>LIMBIC SYSTEM </b>- As your filthy meat-bag sleeps like the dead, that memory sends a dash of adrenaline coursing through your system. Your muscles tense, your jaw tightens, your teeth grind against each other like sharp, scraping, stones…</p><p> </p><p><b>YOU</b> - Hey! I see what you're doing there. Stop it, or I'm going to sic Volition on you. </p><p><b>AUTHORITY</b> [Easy: Success] - Or me.</p><p><b>YOU</b> - Or him.</p><p> </p><p><b>ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN</b> - ...Alright, brother-man. We’ll let you off easy. </p><p><b>LIMBIC SYSTEM</b> - We are?</p><p><b>ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN</b> - Just for tonight. </p><p><b>LIMBIC SYSTEM</b> - … Yes. Just for tonight.</p><p> </p><p><b>YOU</b> -  Deal. Now, <em> sod off </em>.</p><p><b>INLAND EMPIRE</b> [Easy: Success] - As your subconscious settles down into a grudging silence, you fall into a deep, dreamless sleep…</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p><b>PERCEPTION (Hearing)</b> [Trivial: Success] - ...only to be jolted awake by the sharp, shrill ringing of the telephone beside your bed.</p><p><b>YOU</b> - You groan and cover your ears with your pillow--</p><p><b>PAIN THRESHOLD</b> [Challenging: Failure] - But it doesn’t stop the noise from drilling into your eardrums. </p><p> </p><p><b>YOU</b> - ...I’ll ignore it. It’ll stop if I ignore it, right?</p><p><b>LOGIC </b>[Easy: Success] - Naturally. But if you don't answer it now, it's just going to ring again. And again. And again---</p><p><b>EMPATHY</b> [Easy: Success] - And besides, you wouldn't be able to forgive yourself if you ignored this call. </p><p><b>LOGIC</b> [Easy: Success] - Because even though the person on the other end of the line deserves to die a slow, painful death for calling you at this godforsaken hour, it's probably an emergency.</p><p><strong>HALF-LIGHT</strong> [Easy: Success] - A murder. A kidnapping. A hostage-taking situation. </p><p><strong>INLAND EMPIRE</strong> [Easy: Success] - A drowned motor carriage containing the corpses of two deranged lovers, their crushed scalps gently stroked by the cold, kindly fingers of the ocean current...</p><p> </p><p><b>YOU</b> - As that haunting vision flashes through your mind, you heave a long-suffering sigh. </p><p>Traitors... You’re supposed to be on <em> my </em>side. </p><p><b>EMPATHY</b> - We are.</p><p><b>LOGIC</b> - Is there any other side that we can choose from? Because you <em> can </em> be an insufferable prick sometimes... </p><p><b>VOLITION</b> [Godly: Success] - Just get up and answer the phone.</p><p> </p><p><b>YOU</b> - Cursing under your breath, you emerge from your pillowy haven and blindly scramble around your bedside table for the phone receiver. </p><p><b>HAND-EYE COORDINATION</b> [Formidable: Success] - Before long, you’re pulling the damned piece of circuitry and plastic and pressing it against your ear.</p><p><b>YOU</b> - “Good morning, please die,” you politely mumble into the phone.</p><p> </p><p><b>JEAN VICQUEMARE</b> - “Rise and shine, shitkid,” the gravelly voice of your partner, Jean Vicquemare, filters through the static in the line. </p><p><b>PERCEPTION (Hearing)</b> [Formidable: Success] - He sounds just as exhausted and disgruntled about this as you are. </p><p><b>EMPATHY</b> [Easy: Success] - You suddenly feel a wave of pity for the poor soul who had to wake Jean up.  </p><p> </p><p><b>JEAN VICQUEMARE</b> - “Sorry to ruin your beauty sleep, but something’s come up. We need you down here in Martinaise ASAP.” </p><p><b>YOU</b> - You blink blearily.</p><p>“What the fuck’s going on in Martinaise at this hour?” </p><p><strong>SHIVERS</strong> [Easy: Success] - The great district of Martinaise lies at the gaping mouth of Revachol Bay like a sprawling forest of dilapidated firetraps bordered by a metallic mountain range of shipping containers. Devastation from the sea and the sky rained down upon it during the Revolution, and ancient bullet holes still riddle the walls of the buildings that were fortunate enough to remain standing after the carnage.</p><p>By all accounts, there's nothing to see there except for a dilapidated boardwalk, a vast shipyard full of industrial containers, and more recently, a chain of pinball parlors that mysteriously started popping up a few years ago...</p><p> </p><p><b>JEAN VICQUEMARE</b> - “Aside from the usual drunken brawl and the perpetual stink of salted fish? Well, there’s a motor carriage that looks like it just crash-landed into the ocean. Oh, and it has two dead bodies inside.”</p><p><b>YOU</b> - Jean's words hit you like a splash of ice-cold water.</p><p>“A man and a woman?”</p><p> </p><p><b>JEAN VICQUEMARE</b> - He remains silent for a while.</p><p><strong>ESPRIT DE CORPS</strong> [Easy: Success] - Lt. Vicquemare has been your partner long enough that he's gotten used to your...uncanny abilities. Still, he cannot help but feel unnerved whenever you manage to correctly intuit something that's happening miles and miles away from where you are. </p><p> </p><p><b>JEAN VICQUEMARE</b> - “Maybe,” he answers in a cryptic tone.</p><p><b>RHETORIC</b> [Medium: Success] - His tone can be interpreted in two ways, either, “I don’t know,” or, “Wouldn’t you want to know?”</p><p>Either way, he’s practically dangling bait right in front of your face.</p><p> </p><p><b>YOU</b> - Sighing, you rub your face wearily.</p><p>“Alright, alright. I’ll be down there in forty-five.” </p><p><b>JEAN VICQUEMARE</b> - “Good," he says gruffly. "Oh, and bring your camera, because I forgot mine at home. Drive safe, Mullen.”</p><p>And with that, he puts down the phone. </p><p><b>YOU</b> - Placing the phone back to its receiver, you heave your body up from the bed and vigorously shake your head to dispel your lingering sleepiness.</p><p><b>ENDURANCE</b> [Medium: Success] - You’re running on just four hours of sleep, but you should be able to function well enough. Perpetual sleep deprivation seems to be part of the whole detective schtick, after all. </p><p> </p><p><b>YOU</b> - I should’ve just been a gym teacher all my life. At least they get summer vacations, spring breaks, snow days---</p><p><b>PERCEPTION</b> [Easy: Success] - Excuse me, but have you looked into a mirror lately? Feel anything...heavy around your belly area? Like, let's say, a formidable layer of fat that you’ve accumulated from a balanced diet of kebab, shawarmas, and burritos, and having a bottle of beer every other day after work?</p><p><b>LOGIC</b> [Easy: Success] - And besides, your brilliant brain would’ve been wasted on the mind-numbing inanity of teaching pre-adolescents how to do calisthenics, or how to shoot a ball into a basket without crushing someone's nose first...</p><p><b>HALF-LIGHT</b> [Easy: Success] - Not to mention those parent-teacher conferences. Do you remember the one you had with Mrs. Thompson? You should have sued her for molestation, with the way she was ogling you---</p><p><b>YOU </b>- OKAY! Okay, I get it. Totally grateful that I’m not a gym teacher now. Thank you.</p><p> </p><p><b>HAND-EYE COORDINATION</b> [Challenging: Success] - Yawning, you flick on your bedside lamp and get up from your bed.</p><p><b>PERCEPTION (Sight)</b> [Medium: Success] - The lamp casts a bright, incandescent island of light around your room, which is relatively neat for a bachelor’s pad. There's your bed, which is big enough for two...</p><p><strong>PAIN THRESHOLD</strong> [Challenging: Success] - But let's face it, it's been six years since you've slept on that bed with anyone else. On the bright side, you no longer have to worry about accidentally crushing someone under your bulk when you turn in your sleep. </p><p> </p><p><b>PERCEPTION (Sight)</b> [Medium: Success] - Most of your dirty clothes are in the hamper by the door, and your desk is uncluttered, save for the ledger that you threw onto it last night before collapsing into bed. The wall above your desk is occupied by a medium-sized corkboard, which is full of tacked-on notes, photographs, receipts, letters, and other post-able paraphernalia that you've accumulated through the years.</p><p>A series of post-its have the words, "THE END IS NIGH" scribbled on them in black, capital letters. You do not remember when or why you wrote them. </p><p><strong>LOGIC</strong> [Easy: Success] - Which is precisely why you tacked them onto the board, as if they'd start making sense if you stare at them long enough.</p><p> </p><p><b>PERCEPTION (Sight)</b> [Medium: Success] - Your eyes land on a photo tacked onto the bottom-left corner of the board, a strategic location that ensures that the photo would be at eye-level when you're seated behind the desk. </p><p><strong>ESPRIT DE CORPS</strong> [Easy: Success] - It's a photo of Precinct 41's Major Crimes Division, which you've had the honor of heading for the past ten years. There are exactly 21 faces in that photo, all of them near and dear to your heart. Captain Ptolemy Pryce himself stands tall and proud in the middle of the photo, flanked by Jean and yourself. Beside you, Sergeant Chester McLaine makes a funny face at the camera while his partner, Mack Torson, grins with his muscular arms crossed in front of his impressive torso. Civilian Officer Trant Heidelstam beams brightly beside Jean, and Patrol Officer Judith Minot stands with quiet dignity on Trant's right. As usual, Guillaume Bevy stands out from the crowd with his spiffy sunglasses and his golden-blonde hair.</p><p><strong>VOLITION</strong> [Easy: Success] - This is the photo that you look at during the dark days, when the weight on your shoulders feels like it's too much to bear, when the world seems so cruel and absurd that your all of your efforts to make it a better place seem naive and futile, when your own weaknesses and failures threaten to overshadow all of your merits and accomplishments...</p><p><strong>ESPRIT DE CORPS</strong> [Easy: Success] - You are willing to die for each one of those faces in that photo.</p><p>And you know that each one of them will be willing to do the same for you.  </p><p> </p><p><b>COMPOSURE</b> - In other news, it’s 4:00 in the morning, and you have exactly 15 minutes to look like a functional human being again! </p><p><b>VOLITION</b> [Legendary: Success] - Shower, dress up, swipe your things, and get going before Jean blows a blood vessel while waiting for you. </p><p> </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - Roger that. </p><p>Scratching your belly, you pad over to the bathroom and start your morning routine.</p><p><strong>PERCEPTION (Sight)</strong> [Trivial: Success] - After turning on the light, you peer into the mirror on top of the sink and examine your face. </p><p>As expected, you look worn and haggard from lack of sleep. There are puffy bags under your eyes and pillow creases on your right cheek. Your moustache and mutton chops need trimming, but you're still on the affable-lion side of the spectrum, and not on the apocalyptic-prophet side... </p><p><strong>HAND-EYE COORDINATION</strong> [Trivial: Success] - Stifling a yawn, you grab your toothbrush, put a pea-sized amount of toothpaste on it, and start scrubbing away. </p><p><strong>SAVOIR FAIRE</strong> - Don't forget to practice the Expression after you brush your teeth!</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - Of course. What kind of disco cop would I be if I didn't do that?</p><p><strong>LOGIC</strong> [Trivial: Success] - A normal cop. </p><p><strong>ELECTROCHEMISTRY</strong> [Challenging: Failure] - A boring cop.</p><p><strong>COMPOSURE</strong> [Challenging: Failure] - A sorry cop.</p><p> </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - You shudder in horror as you look through those options. </p><p>After brushing your teeth, you take a quick shower and use the opportunity to check in with all the voices in your head.</p><p>Anyone have anything for me this fine morning?</p><p><strong>LOGIC</strong> - All clear.</p><p><strong>EMPATHY</strong> - If you can, go and buy a cup of coffee for Lt. Vicquemare on your way to Martinaise. Based on how tired he sounded, he'll appreciate that gesture <em>a lot</em>.</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - Great suggestion. Anyone else?</p><p><strong>ESPRIT DE CORPS</strong> - Bring the camera.</p><p><strong>VISUAL CALCULUS</strong> - And a spare pair of gloves, some ammonia, and preferably, an empty stomach. You're probably going to have to do a field autopsy on those two corpses when you get there, and you don't want to puke your guts out in front of the good citizens of Martinaise.</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - You wince at the idea of touching cold, dead, human flesh. Even though you've done it hundreds of times, it always gives you the creeps...</p><p><strong>INLAND EMPIRE</strong> - However, unlike the others corpses that you've dealt with in the past, these two will not be as willing to surrender their secrets to your probing inquiries.</p><p>They are...formidable. Even in death.</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - As you consider this mysterious insight, you wrap a towel around your waist and march back to your room to perform one of the most sacred duties of your day.</p><p> </p><p><strong>SAVOIR FAIRE</strong> [Easy: Success] - It is time...</p><p>To pick out your outfit! </p><p> </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - Okay, guys. Help me out here. What will I need to crack this case?</p><p><strong>LOGIC</strong> [Easy: Success] - The Interisolary Dress Shirt. You'll need the extra brainpower to connect the dots, given how sleep-deprived you are. </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - Done. Coat or blazer?</p><p><strong>ESPRIT DE CORPS</strong> [Easy: Success] - The Disco-Ass Blazer. It always proves helpful whenever you have to work with Lt. Vicquemare.</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - Blazer it is. Pants?</p><p><strong>ELECTROCHEMISTRY</strong> [Easy: Success] - Buddy, I cannot emphasize how important it is that you wear those Flare-Cut Trousers today. Like. Trust me on this.  </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - You frown at your wardrobe.</p><p>Why? Will I be seducing anybody today?</p><p><strong>ELECTROCHEMISTRY</strong> [Easy: Success] - My lips are sealed. Zipped. Clamped shut.</p><p>... But the answer is for the love of all that is good and holy, YES, you'd <em>better</em> seduce a certain someone today. </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - Any idea what he's going on about?</p><p><strong>LOGIC</strong> [Legendary: Failure] - No clue. </p><p><strong>INLAND EMPIRE</strong> [Legendary: Failure] - Absolutely no idea.</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - Shrugging, you take out the pants from the cabinet and put them on. </p><p>Alright, what about the shoes?</p><p><strong>COMPOSURE</strong> [Easy: Success] - The Green Snakeskins will help you keep a straight face while talking to those dead bodies.</p><p> </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - Speaking of dead bodies...</p><p>Your eyes drift to the pile of ties lying in a box at the bottom of your cabinet. Specifically, on the outlandishly vivid relic that lies on top of the pile, beckoning your gaze towards it like a kaleidoscopic sliver of cloth...</p><p><strong>INLAND EMPIRE</strong> [Easy: Success] - Yes. Definitely. Absolutely.</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - Succumbing to its siren call, you pick up the Horrific Necktie and put it on.</p><p> </p><p><strong>HORRIFIC NECKTIE</strong> - Let me guess. You're going to talk to dead people again?</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - Yep. </p><p><strong>HORRIFIC NECKTIE</strong> - Bratan, I'm going to help you make them <em>sing.</em>  What are you waiting for? Let's go!</p><p> </p><p><strong>VOLITION</strong> [Trivial: Success] - Through your own free will (and absolutely not because your necktie told you so), you close your wardrobe, swipe your bag from behind the door, grab your ledger from your desk---</p><p><strong>ESPRIT DE CORPS</strong> - The camera!!!</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - Oh, right.</p><p><strong>HAND-EYE COORDINATION</strong> [Trivial: Success] - --and get your camera from a drawer beneath the desk.</p><p> </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - Last chance, guys. Anything else I need before I head out?</p><p><strong>LOGIC</strong> [Trivial: Success] - Nope, you're all set and ready to go. </p><p><strong>SAVOIR FAIRE</strong> - Wait! Expression practice!!! <em>Did you do it</em>???</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - Whoops, sorry. Almost forgot about that. </p><p>You rush back into the bathroom, turn on the lights, and quickly flash your best impression of Guillaume le Million.</p><p><strong>DRAMA</strong> [Trivial: Success] - Behold, my liege! Your majestic, ineffable, utterly captivating visage!!!</p><p><strong>SAVOIR FAIRE</strong> - Great angle! Now, load up those finger guns!</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - You load up the finger guns and fire them at your grinning face.</p><p><strong>SAVOIR FAIRE</strong> [Trivial: Success] - Whew, the world better be ready for you, because you're about to set it on<em> fire</em>.</p><p><strong>RHETORIC</strong> [Trivial: Success] - Not literally, of course. </p><p><strong>PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT</strong> - Unless someone tries to mess around with you, and there happens to be a convenient container of flammable liquid nearby... </p><p> </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - With your morning routine duly and stylishly accomplished, you stride out of your apartment with a wide, daredevil grin on your face. </p><p>I have a great feeling about this, boys.</p><p>We're going to crack this case wide open.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Meanwhile, a few kilometers away from your apartment, a lone figure stands on the balcony of a <strike>bar</strike> cafeteria. </p><p>The glittering lights of the city glint on his glasses. A half-smoked cigarette smoulders between his gloved fingers, and he exhales a plume of smoke into the frigid, pre-dawn air. </p><p>His gaze is trained towards the south, specifically, at the red-and-blue emergency lights that glare through the darkness in a whirling, steady beat...</p><p>When the door opens behind him, he doesn't even turn to look.</p><p>"Titus," he greets, tapping out the ash from his cigarette.</p><p> </p><p>Behind him, Titus Hardie shakes his head in disbelief.</p><p>"You got eyes at the back of your head, Ace?" he asks as he walks over to join the other man on the balcony.</p><p> </p><p>Ace gives him a small, secret smile. "Just a lucky guess," he says.</p><p>Titus mutters something like, "Lucky guess my foot," but he shuts up when he sees the police lights in the distance.</p><p>"Didn't think they'd show up this quickly," Titus says, in a tone that implies that he would have highly preferred it if the police hadn't shown up at all.</p><p>Ace remains silent, but his gaze takes on a cold, calculating edge. </p><p> </p><p>"How're you doing?" Titus asks. "You had a pretty rough landing over there---"</p><p>"I'm fine," Ace replies, but Titus can't help but notice the faint bruises on his temple and the exposed skin of his arms...</p><p>Then, Titus quickly catches himself and tries to stop worrying over Ace like a mother hen. </p><p>If Ace said that he was fine, then he was fine.</p><p> </p><p>Tapping his fingers nervously on the balcony railing, Titus releases a shuddering, foggy breath. </p><p>"You think the pigs will come knocking at our door?" he asks.</p><p>Ace nods. "No doubt about it. Is everyone ready with their statements?"</p><p>"Yeah," Titus says, standing back from the railing and crossing his arms over his chest. "Eugene and Angus are making the rounds now to tell everyone what's going on, and what they should tell the pigs in case they come sniffing around."</p><p>"Excellent. Great work, Titus."</p><p>And dammit, Titus both loves and hates the tiny burst of pride that he feels at Ace's praise. </p><p> </p><p>Then, before he loses his nerve, Titus takes a deep breath and steels himself for what he's about to say next.</p><p>"Ace," he starts. "I don't think it's a good idea for you to be around when the cops---"</p><p>But before he can finish his sentence, Ace looks at him directly and arches an eyebrow</p><p>Titus' words die on his lips.</p><p> </p><p>"I'm not going anywhere, Hardie," Ace says, in a quiet voice that was as unyielding as steel. "This mess happened because of me. And I'm not going to allow anyone else to suffer the consequences for it."</p><p>And just like that, Titus knows that he's been defeated.</p><p>Sighing, he massages the bridge of his nose to ease the migraine that threatens to pulse through his skull. "Okay. Okay, I'm not going to stop you." </p><p>Ace's face remains expressionless, but Titus swears that he could see gratitude in the other man's eyes.</p><p>"But," Titus quickly adds. "If those filthy pigs even <em>try</em> to lift a finger against you---"</p><p> </p><p>"I know, I know. You're going to unleash the full fury of the Hardie boys against them," Ace intones like a bored schoolchild. </p><p>"...Damn right," Titus huffs, slightly miffed that Ace got to steal the bad-ass line that he was about to say.</p><p> </p><p>Ace's lips quirk up around his cigarette.</p><p>Then, after one last, luxurious exhale, he stubs it out on the sole of his boot. </p><p>"We'd better get some sleep, Titus. This is going to be a long day for the both of us," Ace says.</p><p> </p><p>Before he follows Ace into the warm interior of the Whirling-in-Rags, Titus Hardie takes one last look at the police lights in the distance. </p><p>"Damn pigs," he mutters.</p><p>Then, he steps into the cafeteria, and shuts the door behind him.</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thank you to <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/valiant_muffin/pseuds/valiant_muffin">valiant_muffin</a> for the competent!Harry fanart that inspired this, and to <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/SomewhatByronically">SomewhatByronically</a> for beta-reading this chapter!</p><p>Disaster!Cop Harry was already a blast to write, but Competent!Harry is a whole different animal (but he's still the adorable dork that we all know and love). </p><p>Next chapter: Harry arrives at the scene of the crime, and Jean gets a much-needed cup of coffee.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. The King and Queen of Nothing</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p><b>YOU</b> - Before heading to the highway, you drop by the Frittte near your apartment to buy two styrofoam cups of the watery swill that they sell as coffee and swipe two packets of sugar for Jean.</p><p><b>ESPRIT DE CORPS</b> [Easy: Success] - Not a lot of people know this, but Lt. Vicquemare has a huge sweet tooth, which might be his body’s way of compensating for all the melancholic bile that oozes through his veins. When he’s particularly stressed, he can single-handedly devour an entire serving of Civilian Volunteer Heidelstam’s legendary apple pie, which appears at Jean’s desk like a culinary miracle when he needs it the most.</p><p>Since no such pies appear on other people’s desks (including yours) when <em>they</em> need it the most, the lieutenant and the civilian officer have been the unwitting subjects of significant amount of office gossip---which, for the record, you have done absolutely nothing to manage or contain. </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - They're big boys. They can take care of themselves. </p><p> </p><p><b>PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT</b> [Easy: Success] - Speaking of big boys, Jean might be a sugar junkie, but he makes up for it by working out four times a week at the precinct gym with Trant and Mack.</p><p><b>PERCEPTION</b> [Easy: Success] - It’s gotten to the point that when they see each other in the morning, the three of them unconsciously start flexing their muscles like some sort of weird, secret handshake between beefcakes.</p><p><b>SAVOIR FAIRE </b>- You kind of want to be part of their club, but at the same time, you think that they should really just say, “Hi!” to each other like normal people. </p><p><b>PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT</b> - At least those three have actual muscles to show off. You just go to the gym twice a week, and even then, you end up eating so much shawarma afterwards that I wonder why you even worked out in the first place.</p><p> </p><p><b>YOU</b> - Hey, I’ll have you know that it’s vitally important to eat a balanced meal after a strenuous workout. Someone back me up here!</p><p><b>VISUAL CALCULUS</b> [Formidable: Success] - The composition of the average shawarma is approximately 35.7% flour tortilla, 26.8% questionable protein source that may or may not be actual beef, 15.5% spicy garlic sauce, 12.2% soggy vegetables, and 9.8% goat testicle---</p><p><b>YOU</b> - You trip on your own feet and almost drop the styrofoam cups. </p><p><em> Goat testicle </em>???!!!!</p><p><b>VISUAL CALCULUS</b> - Our analysis is 98.67% accurate.</p><p> </p><p><b>YOU</b> - Shuddering in horror, you place the coffee in the cup-holders on your dashboard and start up your Coupris ‘40. </p><p>That’s it. I’m <em> never </em> going to eat shawarmas again. It’s just going to be kebabs and burritos from now on---</p><p><b>VISUAL CALCULUS</b> [Formidable: Success] -  The composition of the average kebab is approximately---</p><p><b>YOU</b> - STOP IT!</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - Since the streets and highways of Jamrock are blessedly empty at this ungodly hour, you arrive in Martinaise in record time. </p><p><strong>PERCEPTION</strong> [Trivial: Success] - As you drive into the outskirts of a small, fishing village, you quickly spot the glaring lights of Jean's MC in the distance, as well as a pair of blinding spotlights that are pointed towards the shore.</p><p><strong>LOGIC</strong> [Easy: Success] - The spotlights mean that a dredging crew's already at the crime scene. They may or may not have extracted the crashed vehicle from the ocean.</p><p><strong>YOU </strong>- As you get closer to a small clearing between a half-circle of dilapidated houses, you eventually see Jean himself crouching beside two body bags that are lying in the middle of a circle of site lights. </p><p> </p><p><strong>HALF-LIGHT</strong> [Trivial: Success] - A surge of adrenaline courses through you at the sight of the crime scene.</p><p><strong>ELECTROCHEMISTRY</strong> - You really get a kick out of this, don't you?</p><p><strong>LOGIC</strong> [Trivial: Success] - The incomparable sense of victory when you make a brilliant deduction.</p><p><strong>EMPATHY</strong> [Trivial: Success] - The inestimable sense of peace when you console the bereaved with the truth of what happened to their loved ones.</p><p><strong>AUTHORITY</strong> [Trivial: Success] - The intoxicating sense of pride when you overcome seemingly insurmountable odds that would have toppled any other man. </p><p> </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - This is who I am.</p><p>This is what I live for.</p><p> </p><p><strong>CONCEPTUALIZATION</strong> [Easy: Success] - Birds are meant to fly. Flowers are meant to bloom. Fish are meant to swim.</p><p>You are meant to drag monsters who snivel and cower in the darkness into the bright, burning light of truth and justice.</p><p> </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - Barely containing your excitement, you park your MC beside Jean's, grab everything that you need from your bag--your badge, the camera, a pair of gloves---and swipe the two cups of still-steaming coffee from your dashboard. </p><p>Then, you jump out of your car and eagerly stride into the frigid, windswept landscape of the Martinaise shoreline.</p><p> </p><p><strong>PERCEPTION</strong> [Trivial: Success] - The clearing has been cordoned off by yellow police tape. It is surrounded by a few ramshackle houses, some of them in such disrepair that they look like they're ready to topple over with the slightest push. When you glance at the ones that actually seem inhabited, you see curtains that are raised ever so slightly, and you can imagine that you can see the wary, yet curious, eyes of the residents within...</p><p>The air is heavy with the tangy smell of the sea, and a chill breeze rakes its rustling fingers through the scraggly trees and bushes that dot the area. </p><p> </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - Shivering against the cold, you crouch under the police tape and pad over to the brightly lit circle in the middle of the clearing.</p><p>"Hey, Jean!" you holler from a few meters away.</p><p> </p><p><strong>JEAN VICQUEMARE</strong> - At the sound of your voice, he looks up and stands from his crouch. </p><p>"About time you arrived, shitkid!" he shouts back.</p><p><strong>EMPATHY</strong> [Challenging: Success] - The expression on the lieutenant's face manages to express both "Thank god you're here," and, "What the fuck took you so long?"</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - Rolling your eyes at Jean's impatience, you raise up one styrofoam cup as a peace offering. </p><p><strong>PERCEPTION (Sight)</strong> [Easy: Success] - Jean's eyes instantly light up at the sight of the coffee. </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - Good call, Em. </p><p><strong>EMPATHY</strong> - You're welcome. </p><p> </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - "One Frittte special, coming up," you tell Jean as you hand over his coffee and sugar.</p><p><strong>JEAN VICQUEMARE</strong> - "The only thing special about this fucking drink is that people still call it coffee," he mutters, but he takes the cup from you with a grateful sigh.</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - Raising your own cup at him in a silent toast, you take your first, scalding sip of the diluted, coffee-like liquid. </p><p>"So," you say while looking at the two body bags in front of you, "what do we have here?"</p><p> </p><p><strong>JEAN VICQUEMARE</strong> - He takes a gulp of his sugary coffee and jabs a thumb towards the shore.</p><p>"Dispatch got an anonymous call a few hours ago about a vehicular accident down here in Martinaise. Caller sounded young, possibly female. Hung up on the operator before they could ask her more questions. Traffic crew got sent over here to check out the scene, and lo and behold, they find that beauty---" he points to the faint outline of a wrecked MC on the shore, "--at the bottom of the ocean a few meters from the shore. We got called in when they found the bodies."</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - "Have you taken a look at the vehicle yet?"</p><p><strong>JEAN VICQUEMARE</strong> - He nods. "Yeah. Looks like we're dealing with some bloody rich corpses. That over there's a LUM Fevre '50, my friend." </p><p> </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - You whistle under your breath. </p><p><strong>INTERFACING</strong> [Challenging: Success] - The LUM Fevre '50 is a top-of-the-line luxury car model that is only rivaled by Coupris Motorcorps' Kineema in terms of horsepower and speed. It can reach 100 kph in 12.5 seconds, and can reach a top speed of 180 kph. </p><p><strong>LOGIC</strong> [Challenging: Success] - A single unit costs at least 55,000 reál. Given that the average RCM officer earns roughly 5,500 reál per year, you'd have to survive an entire <em>decade</em> without spending a single cent if you wanted to get your grubby hands on one of those beauties. </p><p>This MC is a status symbol---</p><p><strong>EMPATHY</strong> [Easy: Success] - ---and a callous luxury in a city where most families survive on relief goods and meal tickets.</p><p><strong>LOGIC</strong> [Easy: Success] - So the million-reál question is: What the hell is a car like that doing in a neighborhood like this?</p><p> </p><p><strong>HORRIFIC NECKTIE</strong> - You could always just<em> ask</em> the car. That's what I'm here for, right?</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - For some reason, you think that Jean might seriously consider throwing himself into the ocean if you start talking to a wrecked luxury vehicle. </p><p>"I'll go and take a look at it myself later," you tell Jean. "Did you ask Oldboy to run the plate yet?"</p><p><strong>JEAN VICQUEMARE</strong> - He huffs.</p><p>"Funny that you mention that, because that damn car doesn't have a damn plate," he says with a disgruntled frown. </p><p> </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - Well, that complicates things a bit.</p><p>"Think they could've stolen the car?" you ask Jean while jerking your head at the body bags on the ground.</p><p><strong>JEAN VICQUEMARE</strong> - He shrugs noncommittally. "Maybe. That would explain why they were driving so fast. But the plate could also just be lying at the bottom of the ocean. Either way, we don't have an ID on the vehicle itself." </p><p> </p><p><strong>LOGIC</strong> [Medium: Success] - The prohibitively expensive price of that car could actually be our saving grace. </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - "Jean, ask Oldboy to call up the LUM Main Office to ask them for the list of Fevre '50s that they've sold in the past two years. I'm guessing that there shouldn't be too many of those lying around in Jamrock, unless I've been hanging out in the wrong part of town..."</p><p><strong>JEAN VICQUEMARE</strong> - "We've all been hanging out on the wrong side of town, Mullen, but that's still a great fucking idea. I'll radio Jules right as soon as we finish up," he says before taking a wincing sip of his coffee.</p><p><strong>EMPATHY</strong> [Challenging: Success] - He's annoyed that he didn't think about that himself, but it's just a minor scrape on his ego.</p><p> </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - Resisting the urge to pat Jean on the shoulder, you shift your attention back to the body bags. </p><p><strong>PERCEPTION (Sight)</strong> [Easy: Success] - Based on the outlines of the bodies within them, you can immediately tell that the body on the right contains the corpse of a large, stocky male, while the bag on the left contains the corpse of a thin, willowy female.</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - "Have you checked out them yet?" you ask Jean.</p><p><strong>JEAN VICQUEMARE</strong> - He downs the last of his coffee and puts the empty cup on the ground. "I've seen them, but I wanted to wait for you before conducting the autopsy. Do you want me to inscribe a pentagram on the ground and light up some black candles now?"</p><p><strong>RHETORIC</strong> [Easy: Success] - The lieutenant's referring to your discomfiting talent for communing with the dead. Ride along with it!</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - "Maybe later. We gotta take them out for dinner first," you say without missing a beat.</p><p><strong>JEAN VICQUEMARE</strong> - He smirks. "Watch out, Corpse Whisperer. You might upchuck <em>your</em> dinner when you see their faces---or what's left of them."</p><p><strong>ENDURANCE</strong> [Formidable: Success] - Your empty, coffee-filled stomach quivers at the thought of seeing what's in those body bags, but you manage to put it under emergency lockdown. </p><p> </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - You take out your gloves from your pocket and snap them on. "Mind if I take the lead on this?" you ask Jean. </p><p><strong>JEAN VICQUEMARE</strong> - He shakes his head and gestures towards the bodies. "Be my guest. I have a feeling they'll be more willing to open up to you anyway."</p><p><strong>DRAMA</strong> [Medium: Success] - The lieutenant's words carry a very mild hint of sarcasm, sire, but he genuinely does believe in your ability to deduce something useful from these cadavers.</p><p> </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - You walk over to the larger body and crouch down beside it.</p><p>Everyone ready?</p><p> </p><p><strong>PERCEPTION </strong>- All your senses are primed and ready to go!</p><p><b>VISUAL CALCULUS</b> - Cerebral cortex is on standby to receive incoming data. </p><p><strong>INLAND EMPIRE</strong> - The veil between the world of the living and the dead is as thin and ethereal as smoke from a cigarette.</p><p><strong>SHIVERS</strong> - The sea breeze curls around the clearing like a curious spectator, eager to behold your reaction towards the macabre gift that the ocean has prepared for your mortal eyes.</p><p> </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - "You ready, Jean?"</p><p><strong>JEAN VICQUEMARE</strong> - He already has his ledger out, and he clicks his pen in response to your question. </p><p>"I've been ready for the past hour, Mullen. Let's get this show on the road."</p><p> </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - Bolstered by the support of Jean and your internal voices, you reach for the zipper of the first body bag and open it up. </p><p><strong>COMPOSURE</strong> [Legendary: Success] - What lies within it almost makes you retch in horror and disgust, but you manage to keep a straight face and stand your ground. </p><p><strong>INLAND EMPIRE</strong> - Perform the rite of passage.</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - Gulping down the bile in your throat, you place your hand on the corpse's chest and perform the Stations of Breath. </p><p> </p><p><strong>DEAD MAN</strong> - Nice to meet you too, pig. </p><p> </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - Clearing your throat, you begin narrating the pertinent details to Jean. </p><p>"Coroner's case number HDB41-0803.0450," you say, the words automatically flowing out of your mouth after years of practice. "The deceased looks to be a 42-year-old male of Mondial ethnicity. Time of death is estimated to be---"</p><p><strong>PERCEPTION (Smell) </strong>[Legendary: Success] - Unlike other corpses that you've dealt with in the past, this one doesn't exude the sweet-sickly carrion smell of rotting flesh yet. Instead, it smells of brine, seaweed, and the faintest, metallic whiff of blood...</p><p><strong>VISUAL CALCULUS</strong> [Medium: Success] - If the other body's anything like this one, then they're practically fresh. Less than 24 hours has passed since they died. </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - "--the 7th of March, '51," you eventually say.</p><p> </p><p><strong>JEAN VICQUEMARE</strong> - He peers over your shoulder to look at the pulpy remains of the corpse's face. "What makes you say that he's around 42? We don't have much to work with, given how badly his face has been smashed in."</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - You jerk your chin towards the dead man's torso. "Musculature seems consistent with that age, and besides, he's just starting to lose his hair. But that's just my guess. You can put down whatever age you think is right," you tell Jean.</p><p><strong>JEAN VICQUEMARE</strong> - He shrugs and scribbles some notes on his ledger. "Nah, let's stick with 42. Any evidence of treatment?"</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - Humming quietly under your breath, you give the body a quick look-over. </p><p>"None, except for the fact that the bodies were extracted from the car by our guys," you say. "But we might spot something else later, when we go to the external and internal examinations."</p><p><strong>JEAN VICQUEMARE</strong> - He nods and waits for you to continue. </p><p> </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - "Starting with the external examination," you say, peering at the corpse's clothes. "Huh. Looks like you're right, Jean. We're dealing with a rich guy here. Clothing is of fine make, a full three-piece suit, charcoal grey. Clothing brand..." </p><p>You check the tag at the back of the corpse's blazer.</p><p>"Le Favre."</p><p><strong>JEAN VICQUEMARE </strong>- "<em>Fuck</em>," he hisses under his breath.</p><p> </p><p><strong>ENCYCLOPEDIA</strong> - Le Favre is a high-end clothing brand that specifically tailors to the Revacholian elite. If each article of clothing on this corpse is from there, then the dead man is wearing the equivalent of roughly 40,000 reál.</p><p><strong>JEAN VICQUEMARE</strong> - "Don't tell me we're dealing with a fucking oligarch here, because I do <em>not</em> want to get dragged into a political shitshow like that."</p><p><strong>LOGIC</strong> [Medium: Success] - The lieutenant's apprehensions are well-founded. Messing with the oligarchs who control Revachol's economy is bound to attract the Coalition's attention, and the RCM cannot afford to get involved in such a high-level case. </p><p>And when you say, "cannot afford," you mean that in the most literal way possible.</p><p> </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - "Don't worry, Jean. Who knows, this might just be a filthy-rich gangster," you say off-handedly.</p><p><strong>JEAN VICQUEMARE</strong> - "Oh, <em>joy.</em> I don't know which one I prefer: the Coalition or the fucking cartels," he mutters with an incredulous shake of his head. </p><p><strong>HALF-LIGHT</strong> [Easy: Success] - He has a great point. Both of those parties are very much capable of spectacularly fucking up the RCM if you mess this up.</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - Good thing <em>I'm</em> the one handling this case then.</p><p>You shift your attention back to the corpse. "I'm going to check for any personal effects."</p><p> </p><p><strong>INTERFACING</strong> [Easy: Success] - You do a thorough search of all the corpse's pockets, which turn out to be surprisingly many. Aside from the obvious ones on his suit and on his slacks, you discover an additional four sewed into the inline of his coat. As you rummage through one of them, your fingers suddenly grab hold of a wet, flimsy piece of cardboard.</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - Extracting the object out carefully, you hold it up to the light so that Jean could see it too. </p><p>"A single playing card," you say, "Extensive water damage, but still identifiable as...the King of Spades."</p><p><strong>CONCEPTUALIZATION</strong> - Despite his translucent sogginess, the Black King leers at you arrogantly and wields his ornate scepter in front of him like a mace. He has the face of a conqueror, a wartime general, a cold-blooded killer...</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - Shuddering, you extend the card to Jean, who immediately puts it into a small bag labelled "EVIDENCE". </p><p>"Playing card will be included in this report as Exhibit A," you narrate for Jean.</p><p> </p><p><strong>JEAN VICQUEMARE</strong> - "Think he was a gambler?" he asks as he puts away the bag into the fold of his jacket. </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - "Could be. That would explain why he's so filthy rich," you acknowledge. "But it's too early to say."</p><p><strong>JEAN VICQUEMARE</strong> - He nods, and clicks his pen again to indicate that he's ready to continue with the autopsy. </p><p> </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - You shift your attention back to the body and examine its height and build. </p><p>"Body seems well-nourished, athletically built, approximately 1.80 meters tall. Preservation seems good, with ambient temperature below freezing." You peer at the top of his head. "The deceased has light-brown hair, and is exhibiting male-pattern baldness. Hair is combed back, and cut short."</p><p> </p><p><strong>INTERFACING</strong> [Easy: Success] - Prompted by a mysterious urge, you extend your gloved hand and run your fingers gently through the dead man's hair.</p><p><strong>EMPATHY</strong> [Challenging: Success] - Lt. Vicquemare is definitely weirded out by this turn of events, but he has developed enough tolerance to your unusual work habits that he's just going to shut up and let you stroke the dead man's hair like a bereaved lover.</p><p><b>PERCEPTION </b>[Easy: Success] - Dark brown strands of hair stick to the latex of your glove like thread from a rag doll's head. His scalp is wet and ice-cold.</p><p> </p><p><strong>DEAD MAN</strong> - This is...nice. We should've fucked while I was still alive, you filthy pig. </p><p> </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - Ignoring the dead man's sneering voice in your head, you focus on his hair once again. </p><p><strong>INTERFACING</strong> [Challenging: Success] - His hair's been slicked back with oil. Brilliantine?</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - "The deceased styled his hair with brilliantine," you say. "Looks like this guy was rich <em>and</em> vain." </p><p><strong>JEAN VICQUEMARE</strong> - "And dead," he says in a tone that devoid of any trace of sympathy.</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - You nod. "Totally dead."</p><p><strong>JEAN VICQUEMARE</strong> -"Deadady-dead-dead-dead," he says solemnly.</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> – "Daba-doop-doop-dead," you intone.</p><p> </p><p><strong>JEAN VICQUEMARE</strong> - "Now that we've settled that extremely important fact, let's try finding out exactly <em>why</em> he's dead."</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - Smiling at that playful, if morbid, exchange, you remove your hand from the corpse's head and do a cursory examination of his body. </p><p>"Chest, abdomen, pelvis, genitalia, back, and extremities seem intact, but the coroner will have to verify any fractures or damage sustained by the deceased from the vehicular crash. As for his hands..." </p><p><strong>PERCEPTION</strong> - You might as well have been handling a hand-shaped piece of ice. A large, brass ring glistens on his right forefinger. </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - "Clean, though fingers on both hands seem fractured, most likely due to the impact. To be added to the deceased's personal effects: a brass ring, approximately 1.20 cm in diameter. There is a large letter M inscribed on the ring, in a stylized, archaic font."</p><p><strong>JEAN VICQUEMARE</strong> - "Think you can pry it off of him?"</p><p><strong>INTERFACING</strong> [Challenging: Success] - Better not. His fingers are so bloated and swollen that you'll never get the ring off him without doing some serious damage to his hands.</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - You shake your head. "Better not risk it. Might damage his hands."</p><p> </p><p><strong>ENDURANCE</strong> - Time for our favorite part.</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - Bracing yourself, you adjust your gloves and get ready for the meat of the autopsy.</p><p><strong>RHETORIC</strong> [Easy: Success] - Hah! I see what you did there. </p><p> </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - You're up, VC. Ready to dance with the dead?</p><p><strong>VISUAL CALCULUS</strong> - Yes. From this point on, all of my observations will be channeled directly to your vocal cords.</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - Excellent.</p><p>"Starting with the internal examination," you say. "Central nervous system seems heavily compromised due to massive blunt-force trauma sustained by the deceased. Gray matter is visible through an extensive fracture in his cranium, and most of the deceased's facial features have also been demolished, presumably after colliding with the steering wheel during the moment of impact."</p><p> </p><p><strong>DEAD BODY</strong> - You saying that I look ugly? You should look at your own mug, buddy.</p><p> </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - "Because of the extensive damage to his face, the deceased cannot be identified using physical features or dental records. Identification can be attempted through the use of fingerprint analysis, if resources permit."</p><p><strong>JEAN VICQUEMARE</strong> - "Processing's going to have a lot of fun with this guy," he mutters under his breath.</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - "He's a ton of fun, alright," you say. "Damage to the musculoskeletal structures of his upper torso are consistent with trauma sustained from a vehicular accident. Hyoid bone--" you press your fingers against the man's neck and immediately feel the broken, jagged edges of bone sticking out of his flesh. "---is completely shattered. Spinal column is presumably also fractured at the base of the neck." </p><p> </p><p><strong>JEAN VICQUEMARE</strong> - "So it was either the whiplash or the steering wheel that did him in," he conjectures.</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - You shrug. "Maybe...Let me check for ligature marks on his shoulders first, to see if he was strapped in."</p><p>Unbuttoning the first few buttons of the corpse's shirt, you peer at his shoulders and see the long, diagonal bruise that crosses his torso from shoulder to waist.</p><p>"Confirmed. Deceased was strapped in at the moment of impact, as indicated by extensive bruising on his torso."</p><p> </p><p><strong>JEAN VICQUEMARE</strong> - "Well, at least we know that he was a law-abiding citizen in that regard." </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - You nod solemnly. "Seatbelt didn't stop his face from getting creamed on the steering wheel, though," you point out.</p><p> </p><p><strong>INTERFACING</strong> - Wait...You're missing something. Go back up to his neck. </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - Following your intuition, you reach up to the corpse's neck and examine it closer...</p><p><strong>PERCEPTION</strong> [Challenging: Success] - There. Do you see that?</p><p> </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - "Jean, there's something at the back of his neck..."</p><p><strong>JEAN VICQUEMARE</strong> - He moves closer and peers over your shoulder.</p><p>"...Looks like a burn." </p><p><strong>PERCEPTION</strong> - At the base of the corpse's neck, there is a raw, pink-and-black patch of skin at that's roughly rectangular in shape. </p><p><strong>VISUAL CALCULUS</strong> - This wound is inconsistent with a vehicular accident, and therefore, was most likely inflicted on the deceased prior to the crash. The shape of the wound is too regular to be inflicted by accident, and judging from how raw it looks, less than 24 hours have elapsed since its infliction. </p><p><strong>LOGIC</strong> [Easy: Success] - That timeframe matches the deceased's approximate time of death.</p><p> </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - Perplexed by this new discovery, you frown at the burn. "Please take note of the burn under Description of Injuries, Jean. It was most likely non-fatal, but inflicted pre-mortem."</p><p><strong>JEAN VICQUEMARE</strong> - "Shit," he mutters as he scribbles onto his ledger. "This is getting more and more complicated by the second."</p><p><strong>LOGIC</strong> - Several questions race through your mind. Who did this to the deceased? Why did they do this to him? And how is it related to the car crash?</p><p>And this is just one out of <em>two</em> corpses. </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - Tearing your gaze away from the corpse's neck, you look up apprehensively at the other body bag. </p><p> </p><p><strong>JEAN VICQUEMARE</strong> - He seems to have the same idea as you, because he suddenly stops scribbling for a moment.</p><p>"I don't want to rush you, Harry. But I suggest that we determine a plausible cause of death for this guy, then move on to his lady-friend over there. She might have more answers for us."</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - <em>Or more damn questions</em>, you silently add. </p><p>Sighing, you redirect your attention back to the dead man. </p><p>You're really making our lives difficult you know that?</p><p> </p><p><strong>DEAD MAN</strong> - What're you talking about? I'm just lying here. Dead. Can't get any simpler than that, Cobo. </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - Cobo? Where'd that come from?</p><p><strong>DEAD MAN</strong> - You look like someone from Cobbodocia. Like an Il Cobo. Unless you want me to keep calling you "pig". </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - ...Fine. You can call me Cobo.</p><p><strong>DEAD MAN</strong> - That’s more like it. And while you’re at it, Cobo, you might as well check the back of my head. I think you'll find an...interesting surprise for you there.</p><p> </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - You blink at the dead man's words. </p><p>Is he just pulling my leg?</p><p><strong>INLAND EMPIRE</strong> [Challenging: Success] - While he might be a rich, vain oligarch-slash-gangster-slash-gambler, or a combination of any of those three, the dead man seems to also be genuinely being helpful for some reason.</p><p><strong>LOGIC</strong> [Easy: Success] - Besides, it wouldn't hurt to be as thorough as possible with this autopsy, and you've already checked out the back of his neck anyway.</p><p> </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - Shrugging, you tilt the corpse's head to examine the back of his skull.</p><p><strong>VISUAL CALCULUS</strong> - The damage here is less severe than the front, but there's still a significant amount of coagulated blood, gray matter, and bits of bone to sift through here. </p><p><strong>INTERFACING</strong> [Legendary: Success] - As you carefully run your fingers across the dome of the dead man's skull, you suddenly come across a small indentation, no larger than the pad of your forefinger, right above his nape...</p><p><strong>VISUAL CALCULUS</strong> [Legendary: Success] - The hole is approximately 0.4 cm in radius, and is just the right size to be the entry point for a 4.46 mm bullet---</p><p> </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - "<em>Fuck</em>," you hiss under your breath. </p><p><strong>JEAN VICQUEMARE</strong> - "What is it?" Jean asks from behind you.</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - "Possible entry point at the back of his skull, right on top of the nape," you say, tilting the corpse's head further to get a better view of the wound.</p><p><strong>JEAN VICQUEMARE</strong> - His jaw drops open.</p><p>Then... </p><p>"<em>Fuck.</em>" </p><p> </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - "Looks like we got a murder here, Jean," you say, without even trying to hide the weariness in your voice. "The car crash is most likely just a smokescreen that the perps used to cover up what really happened to these two."</p><p><strong>JEAN VICQUEMARE</strong> - He crouches down next to you and peers incredulously at the back of the dead man's skull.</p><p>"And here I thought I'd be able to go back home and catch up on some sleep after this," he sighs.</p><p><strong>INLAND EMPIRE</strong> - Without a doubt, you and the lieutenant will be plagued by nightmares of the dead man for the next few nights. Neither of you will be able to catch up on sleep until this case has been solved.</p><p><strong>JEAN VICQUEMARE</strong> - "I'm figuring this here's our fatal injury, then?" </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - "Yep. Unless you want to strip him naked and find out for sure...?"</p><p>The both of you look down at the length of the corpse's muscular, suit-clad body.</p><p>Then you look at the distance, where the dredging crew is milling around their tow truck.</p><p> </p><p><strong>JEAN VICQUEMARE</strong> - "Nah, I'm good," he says in a carefully modulated voice.</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - "Yeah, me too," you say in an equally even tone. </p><p> </p><p><strong>DEAD MAN</strong> - Aw, don't be afraid of me, officers. I don't bite.</p><p>Not anymore.</p><p> </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - Sighing, you stand up and immediately wince at the pins and needles that shoot up your legs. </p><p><strong>PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT</strong> [Challenging: Failure] - Look at you, you're getting weak and old. Your knees can barely support your own weight anymore, you tub of lard.</p><p><strong>JEAN VICQUEMARE</strong> - "You want me to take the lead on this one?" Jean says, gesturing towards the other body bag.</p><p><strong>EMPATHY</strong> [Medium: Success] - It should be alright. You have complete confidence in Lt. Vicquemare's abilities and, despite his weariness, he wants to get to the bottom of this case as much as you do.</p><p><strong>AUTHORITY</strong> [Medium: Success] - Besides, it'll be good training for him, and you'll get to play the role of wise-yet-eccentric mentor.</p><p><strong>RHETORIC</strong> - "Eccentric" being the key word.</p><p> </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - Tugging off the gore-stained gloves from your hands, you give Jean a grateful nod.</p><p>"Go ahead, Jean. Pass me your ledger and I'll take down the notes."</p><p><strong>JEAN VICQUEMARE</strong> - He hands his ledger to you and produces a pair of latex gloves from his pockets, which he puts on with practiced efficiency.</p><p><strong>ESPRIT DE CORPS</strong> - Lt. Vicquemare's techniques might be more conventional than yours, but he wields them with unrivaled proficiency. Before the lieutenant joined the 41st, Captain Pryce had a difficult time looking for a partner who could keep up with your ridiculous pace of work, a dilemma that was promptly solved when Lt. Vicquemare showed up with his ironclad determination, no-nonsense temperament, and utter dedication to getting the job done in the best possible way.</p><p>There is no one else in the world that you would rather have as your partner than him.</p><p> </p><p><strong>JEAN VICQUEMARE</strong> - As you zip up the dead man's body bag, he pads over to the second body and crouches down beside it.</p><p>"Let me know when you're ready, Harry." . </p><p><strong>COMPOSURE</strong> [Challenging: Success] - His expression and his posture exudes calm confidence, like a well-aimed gun ready to fire a bullet at its target. </p><p><strong>EMPATHY</strong> - You feel a surge of pride at seeing Jean's professional demeanor.</p><p><strong>COMPOSURE</strong> - Wait a minute, I didn't say that he learned it from <em>you---</em> </p><p><strong>AUTHORITY</strong> - But he did learn it from us.</p><p><strong>ESPRIT DE CORPS</strong> [Medium: Success] - Actually, he learned it from his father, who was a very competent surgeon known for pioneering several groundbreaking techniques in the field of cardiology.</p><p>But if it makes you feel better, then yes, maybe he did learn some of it from you.</p><p> </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - Reassured of your significant and absolutely unique role in Jean's professional development, you walk over to join him and get ready to take down his observations.</p><p>"Go ahead, Jean. Let's see what she has to say."</p><p><strong>JEAN VICQUEMARE</strong> - Nodding, he takes a deep breath to gather his wits about him.</p><p>Then, he zips open the body bag.</p><p> </p><p><strong>PERCEPTION (Sight)</strong> [Medium: Success] - From your vantage point over Jean's shoulder, you see the mess of gore and shattered bone that constitutes her face. But you also see her silver-blond hair, which sticks to the side of her ruined cheeks like strands of gossamer. </p><p>She's wearing a silver jumpsuit, which sparkles like scale armor under the white glare of the site lights that surround you...</p><p><strong>INLAND EMPIRE</strong> [Legendary: Success] - In another world, another lifetime, you see her standing in front of you, leaning against the railing overlooking the dance floor of a <strike>bar</strike> cafeteria with a cigarette in her hand. Her hair is blonde. Her eyes are brown. Her face is speckled with birthmarks---</p><p> </p><p><strong>DEAD WOMAN</strong> - Hello, officer.</p><p> </p><p><strong>INLAND EMPIRE</strong> [Legendary: Success] - When she puts the cigarette between her lips, the smoke wafts out from the hole at the back of her skull.</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Two Birds on a Wire</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p><b>JEAN VICQUEMARE</b> - “Well,” Jean sighs as you watch the removal team carry the two body bags away from the clearing, “looks like we have an absolutely magnificent shitshow on our hands, Harry.”</p><p><b>YOU</b> - You nod, your eyes locked onto the woman’s body bag as it disappears from view.</p><p>“Yeah,” you mutter absently. “It's a shitshow, alright.” </p><p> </p><p><b>HALF-LIGHT </b>- In your eighteen years of service in the Revachol Citizens’ Militia, you have encountered countless corpses of all shapes, sizes, and manners of death. Jilted lovers with slashed wrists, prostitutes with hacked-off limbs, druggies with black veins and frothing mouths...</p><p><b>CONCEPTUALIZATION </b>[Medium: Success] - Each one of them was a world of their own, a world whose apocalypse came in the form of a knife, a bullet, a careless step onto a busy road… </p><p><b>INLAND EMPIRE </b>- More often than not, you've been able to coax the deceased into giving you even just the tiniest glimpse into their secret worlds.</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - And if there’s one thing that you’ve learned from all of those years of communing with them, it’s that unlike the living---</p><p><b>DRAMA</b> - The dead do not lie.</p><p> </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - But that woman was… </p><p>Different.</p><p> </p><p><strong>INLAND EMPIRE</strong> - She thwarted us at every turn, giving answers that made you believe that you were on the edge of a breakthrough, only to discover that she had merely led you around an aimless circle with her true identity as its unreachable center.</p><p><strong>EMPATHY</strong> [Legendary: Failure] - You're being too harsh on her. She was just a scared little girl. </p><p><strong>DRAMA</strong> [Challenging: Success] - No! She was a consummate liar. </p><p><strong>LOGIC</strong> [Legendary: Failure] - What are you talking about? She was a helpless victim. </p><p><strong>ELECTROCHEMISTRY</strong> [Challenging: Success] - You kidding me? That lady was a madonna of vice.</p><p><strong>SUGGESTION</strong> [Legendary: Failure] - You've got her wrong, she was a pleading supplicant.</p><p><strong>VOLITION</strong> [Challenging: Success] - No.</p><p>She was a mistress of manipulation. </p><p> </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - For as long as you remember hearing voices in your head, you have never heard them squabble with each other like this.</p><p><strong>HALF-LIGHT</strong> [Challenging: Success] - Their chaotic confusion shakes you to the core, and you can't help but wonder...</p><p>If she's this formidable in death, how much more terrifying was she in life?</p><p> </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - Repressing a shudder, you focus your attention inward and wait for a certain voice to give you one last insight into the dead woman's world...</p><p>But it never comes.</p><p> </p><p><strong>SHIVERS</strong> [Legendary: Failure] - To look into her past is to look into the hundreds of faces that she has worn over the years, like the myriad, shimmering pieces of a fractured mirror.</p><p> </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> -  You massage your temples with a weary sigh. </p><p>Can't believe she got you too, Shiv.</p><p> </p><p><strong>PAIN THRESHOLD</strong> [Challenging: Failure] - Dealing with that woman was more taxing than you expected. A migraine threatens to bloom behind your eyes, and your body's feeling the combined effects of sleep deprivation, hunger, and fatigue...</p><p><strong>JEAN VICQUEMARE</strong> - "You alright, Harry?"</p><p>Jean's voice snaps you out of your reverie, and when you turn to face him, his face is drawn with concern. </p><p><strong>EMPATHY</strong> [Challenging: Success] - He's never seen you this worn out after an autopsy, and it worries him.</p><p> </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - You give him what you hope to be a reassuring smile. </p><p>"I'm fine, Jean. Just need a breather to gather my thoughts... Mind if we sit down somewhere and go over our notes?"</p><p><strong>JEAN VICQUEMARE</strong> - He nods and looks around. </p><p>"We can go over there," he says, pointing to a derelict swing set that overlooks the shore. </p><p> </p><p><strong>VISUAL CALCULUS</strong> [Easy: Success] - That swing set looks so rusty and sea-worn that it might just crumble under your combined weights.</p><p><strong>INLAND EMPIRE</strong> [Formidable: Success] - It also looks...familiar. As if you've seen it before. </p><p>...As if you've sat on it before, in another world, in another lifetime, whistling a lilting tune as you wait for the tide to recede, only to have your life's companion join you with a higher-pitched, slightly more melodic trill that puts the Insulindic thrush to shame... </p><p><strong>SUNKEN MOTOR CARRIAGE</strong> - You hear the sound echo on the large body of water. Clouds race across the spring sky and suddenly you just feel better. About everything. </p><p><strong>CONCEPTUALIZATION</strong> [Medium: Success] - Two birds on a wire, whistling by the seaside. Looking at the water. And a sunken car. </p><p> </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - Stunned by the vividness of that non-existent memory, you blink---</p><p> </p><p><strong>INLAND EMPIRE</strong> [Legendary: Failure] - And the vision evaporates from your mind like smoke from a single, nightly cigarette.</p><p> </p><p><strong>PAIN THRESHOLD</strong> [Legendary: Failure] - You desperately try to cling to the sound of his voice, the comfort of his presence, the warmth of his gaze---</p><p>But they slip through your fingers like sand in an hourglass.</p><p> </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - And just like that, you're standing at the shoreline again, alone, dazed, and forlorn, while Jean marches off towards the swings.</p><p><strong>PAIN THRESHOLD</strong> [Legendary: Failure] - You stare into thin air, utterly devastated by the absence of someone whom you have never met.</p><p> </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - Gentlemen.</p><p>What the holy <em>fuck</em> was that about.</p><p> </p><p><strong>INLAND EMPIRE</strong> [Legendary: Failure] - Pardon?</p><p><strong>CONCEPTUALIZATION</strong> [Legendary: Failure] - What are <em>you</em> talking about? </p><p> </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - You know what I mean---</p><p> </p><p><strong>JEAN VICQUEMARE</strong> - "Harry! Stop staring at nothing and get your ass over here!" he shouts at you from the swing set.</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - Still rattled by the mysterious vision, you start making your way towards Jean. </p><p><strong>LOGIC</strong> [Challenging: Success] - You're hungry and sleep-deprived, so your mind's starting to play tricks on you.</p><p><strong>ELECTROCHEMISTRY</strong> [Challenging: Success] - You haven't gotten laid in forever, so your repressed libido's starting to wreak havoc on your imagination.</p><p> </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - But. It felt so...<em>real.</em></p><p><em>He</em> felt so real.</p><p> </p><p><strong>LOGIC</strong> [Challenging: Success] - Please anchor yourself back onto reality before Lt. Vicquemare wonders whether you got food poisoning from that cup of Frittte coffee.</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - You finally make it to the swing and plop yourself down on the seat beside Jean.</p><p><strong>JEAN VICQUEMARE</strong> - He looks at you with a worried frown.</p><p>"What happened over there?" he asks.</p><p><strong>DRAMA</strong> [Easy: Success] - The lieutenant is genuinely concerned about your well-being, sire.</p><p>YOU - "It was nothing, Jean," you say, turning to face him. "Just hungry and tired, I guess---"</p><p> </p><p><strong>INLAND EMPIRE</strong> [Formidable: Success] - He straddles the swing seat with comfort and ease, as if sitting like a normal person was beneath him. His eyes are infinitely patient as he gazes at the frozen wreck of the motor carriage, and the last dying rays of the sun glint off his glasses---</p><p> </p><p><strong>JEAN VICQUEMARE</strong> - "Harry!" </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - You snap out of it. </p><p><strong>JEAN VICQUEMARE</strong> - The frown on his face has deepened and his eyes are now both concerned <em>and</em> alarmed. </p><p>"What are you staring at me for?" he asks. </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - You blink. </p><p>"Sorry. I... uh. I'm just. Feeling a bit out-of-sorts. After those autopsies," you manage to say.</p><p> </p><p><strong>SUGGESTION</strong> [Formidable: Failure] - The lieutenant isn't entirely convinced by your explanation. </p><p><strong>JEAN VICQUEMARE</strong> - He hesitates for a moment...</p><p>Then, he reaches over and presses a cold hand against your forehead.</p><p>"Huh," he says, retracting his hand. "Doesn't seem like you have a fever. Eyes are a bit dilated though. Do you want to lie down somewhere first?"</p><p><strong>EMPATHY</strong> [Easy: Success] - Jean might seem gruff and grumpy most of the time, but he genuinely cares for the people around him, including yourself.</p><p>You secretly think that it's one of his more endearing traits.</p><p> </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - You shake your head. "No, it's okay, Jean. I think it'd help me more if we tried to make sense of what the hell happened to those two," you say, hoping that he would relent and shift his attention away from your bizarre episode.</p><p>You'd better have a damn good explanation for that, Inland.</p><p> </p><p><strong>INLAND EMPIRE</strong> [Legendary: Failure] - I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about. </p><p> </p><p><strong>JEAN VICQUEMARE</strong> - He settles back into his seat. "Those boogies gave you a really hard time, huh?" he asks.</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - "Yeah," you say, grateful that he backed off. "The guy wasn't so bad. But the girl..."</p><p>You frown in dismay. "She played around with me. Like a cat playing with a fucking mouse."</p><p><strong>JEAN VICQUEMARE</strong> - His eyebrows shoot up.</p><p><strong>ESPRIT DE CORPS</strong> [Easy: Success] - It speaks of the quality of your partnership with the lieutenant that he doesn't even question the fact that you're able to converse with a dead woman in the first place.</p><p> </p><p><strong>JEAN VICQUEMARE</strong> - "Well shit," he says. "Didn't think the great Harrier Du Bois would've found his match in some dead party-girl."</p><p><strong>SAVOIR FAIRE</strong> [Easy: Success] - Despite your weariness, you snort and give him the one-finger salute.</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - "Fuck you, Vicquemare," you mutter. </p><p><strong>JEAN VICQUEMARE</strong> - He just grins in response.</p><p><strong>EMPATHY</strong> [Formidable: Success] - He's happy to see that you haven't entirely lost your spunk.</p><p> </p><p><strong>JEAN VICQUEMARE</strong> - "So, you ready to go over what we found out this morning?"</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - "Yeah---"</p><p><strong>ELECTROCHEMISTRY</strong> [Easy: Success] - Ahem. </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - What?</p><p><strong>ELECTROCHEMISTRY </strong>- Given how frazzled you are, you might want to...reinforce your intellect, if you catch my drift.</p><p> </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - You blink. </p><p>Huh. Good idea, EC.</p><p><strong>LOGIC</strong> - For once.</p><p><strong>ELECTROCHEMISTRY</strong> - Hey! I heard that, you stuck-up jerk!</p><p> </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - "Hold up, Jean," you say, fishing around your pockets and pulling out a battered carton of Astra cigarettes. </p><p><strong>ELECTROCHEMISTRY</strong> [Easy: Success] -That's it, baby! Time to speed up these synapses with some sweet, sweet nicotine!</p><p><strong>HAND-EYE COORDINATION</strong> [Easy: Success] - After taking a stick and putting it between your lips, you offer the box to Jean.</p><p><strong>JEAN VICQUEMARE</strong> - He shrugs and takes a cigarette for himself.</p><p>"Thanks, Mullen. Wait, I got this," he says when he sees you rummaging for your lighter. He takes out a brass-plated lighter from his coat pocket, flicks it open, and holds it out for you.</p><p> </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - You smile gratefully around your cigarette. </p><p>"Thanks," you mumble as you lean forward and light up your stick.</p><p><strong>ELECTROCHEMISTRY</strong> - At your first, heavenly inhale, all of the coiled tension in your body and the foggy haze in your mind dissipate in an instant.</p><p><strong>JEAN VICQUEMARE </strong>- After lighting up his own cigarette, he closes his eyes and savors his first puff.</p><p> </p><p><strong>ESPRIT DE CORPS</strong> [Easy: Success] - In the four years that you've been partners, you and Lt. Vicquemare have developed some shared habits when it comes to investigations. There's the Thinking Ball, which you toss at each other while brainstorming at your desks...</p><p><strong>HAND-EYE COORDINATION</strong> [Formidable: Success] - The fact that you think better when you're tossing a ball around has prompted Sgt. McLaine to spread the rumor that you have some Golden Retriever in your ancestry.</p><p><strong>RHETORIC</strong> [Formidable: Success] - You responded by spreading the counter-rumor that the sergeant's mother is an orangutan.</p><p> </p><p><strong>ESPRIT DE CORPS</strong> [Easy: Success] - There's the Jamrock Shuffle, which Jean grudgingly adopted after witnessing its astounding, if eccentric, effectiveness with his own eyes... </p><p><strong>HAND-EYE COORDINATION</strong> [Formidable: Success] - You're happy to say that when it comes to the total number of containers opened, you still beat Lt. Vicquemare by a large margin.  </p><p><strong>LOGIC</strong> - That's because Jean absolutely refuses to open trash dumps, car trunks, industrial containers, and, in one very memorable instance, an occupied coffin.</p><p> </p><p><strong>ESPRIT DE CORPS</strong> [Easy: Success] - But aside from those two habits, you and the lieutenant also share the difficult, but freely chosen, mortification of only smoking cigarettes when you're confronted by a particularly difficult case. The last time you've lit up was two months ago, during THE BURNED WOMAN...</p><p><strong>VOLITION</strong> [Legendary: Success] - You don't know how Jean does it, but you've managed to keep the habit mostly under control thanks to a combination of stubborn willpower and incredible vanity.</p><p><strong>SAVOIR FAIRE</strong> [Legendary: Success] - After all, there's absolutely <em>no</em> way that you're willing to compromise the pristine quality of the Expression by having gross, stained smoker's teeth. </p><p><strong>ENDURANCE</strong> [Medium: Success] - Plus, you don't want to die young.</p><p><strong>SAVOIR FAIRE</strong> - ...Yeah. Yeah, that too.</p><p> </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - "So, let's start," you say as you exhale a plume of smoke. "What did we find out from the bodies?"</p><p><strong>JEAN VICQUEMARE</strong> - He takes out his ledger and flips through his notes. "The man's approximately 42 years old, while the woman's estimated to be in her late twenties," he says around his cigarette. "Both of them sustained extensive facial injuries from the crash, which means processing will have a grand time trying to identify them. On the other hand, we also found out that they both had rectangular burns on the bases of their necks, and they were each shot once at the back of the head---"</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - You frown. "Summary executions?"</p><p><strong>JEAN VICQUEMARE</strong> - "Could be," he acknowledges. "What's strange is that we didn't find any ligature marks on their wrists or their ankles, so neither of them were bound when they were shot."</p><p><strong>LOGIC</strong> [Legendary: Failure] - You cannot think of any plausible explanation for that.</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - "Plus, the woman had injuries consistent with blunt force trauma at the<em> back</em> of her head, right?"</p><p><strong>JEAN VICQUEMARE</strong> - "That's right. Could be from the car crash, could be from something else... But either way, I think we can reasonably conclude that these two were dead even before that car crashed into the ocean."</p><p> </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - You swing yourself back and forth as you let that conclusion sink into your brain. </p><p>"Sounds about right," you eventually say. "What did we find on the bodies?"</p><p><strong>JEAN VICQUEMARE</strong> - "Playing cards," he says with a perplexed frown. "The King of Spades on the man, the Queen of Spades on the woman."</p><p><strong>CONCEPTUALIZATION</strong> [Formidable: Success] - The Black King and the Black Queen. He who crushes his foes beneath his feet, and she who wears a thousand faces...</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - "Any ideas what they could mean?" you ask Jean.</p><p><strong>JEAN VICQUEMARE</strong> - "If we're dealing with a killer, the cards might be their signature," he says. "Like a calling card that they leave on the bodies, just to show the world that they did it."</p><p><strong>HALF-LIGHT</strong> [Medium: Success] - The thought of having a serial killer on the loose, leaving a bloody trail of murdered couples and playing cards in their wake, sends a horrified chill through your spine. </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - "As much as I hate to think about it, that actually sounds possible. Good work, Jean."</p><p><strong>JEAN VICQUEMARE</strong> - He waves off your compliment. "Don't thank me yet, Mullen. For all we know, those playing cards were already on the couple before they died."</p><p> </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - "What about the rings?" </p><p><strong>JEAN VICQUEMARE</strong> - "Ah, right. Both of them were wearing brass rings engraved with the letter M. Think they were married?" he asks you.</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - "Could be. But if we got their ages right, then that guy's old enough to be her sugar daddy," you mutter around your cigarette. </p><p><strong>JEAN VICQUEMARE</strong> - He scoffs. "Well, he certainly looked rich enough to be a pimp," he says. </p><p> </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - "So they could've been married, but it's also possible that they weren't. Maybe the M stands for something... But what?"</p><p><strong>JEAN VICQUEMARE</strong> - "Could be a name, could be a place," he says. </p><p><strong>LOGIC</strong> - Might as well throw some ideas around.</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - "Martinaise," you say.</p><p><strong>JEAN VICQUEMARE</strong> - "Mesque," he says, without missing a beat.</p><p><strong>YOU - </strong>"Moriyn."</p><p><strong>JEAN VICQUEMARE</strong> - "Messina."</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - "Mazda." </p><p><strong>JEAN VICQUEMARE</strong> - He says nothing.</p><p> </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - Startled by his silence, you turn to look at him, only to see him staring at you with wide eyes.</p><p>"...Mazda?" you repeat.</p><p><strong>JEAN VICQUEMARE</strong> - He winces. </p><p>"For the love of Dolores, Harry, I sincerely hope that it <em>doesn't</em> mean that," he says, taking a long, trembling inhale of his cigarette. </p><p><strong>HALF-LIGHT</strong> [Easy: Success] - The lieutenant's fear is infectious, and it quickly dawns on you why he'd be so terrified of that word.</p><p> </p><p><strong>ENCYCLOPEDIA</strong> [Formidable: Success] - Rivaled only by the bloodthirsty La Puta Madre, The Mazda is one of the two most powerful gangsters in Revachol. It is testament to the Mazda's power, and to the RCM's utter impotence against them, that there is an entire street in the Villalobos District that has been walled off and turned into a poppy field by their cartel.</p><p>No one has seen The Mazda, or if someone has, then no one has survived long enough to tell the world about them.</p><p><strong>LOGIC</strong> - For all you know, they could be one person. They could be many people. They could be a man, a woman, or a child---</p><p><strong>ENCYCLOPEDIA</strong> [Formidable: Success] - Regardless of The Mazda's mysterious identity, there is no doubt that their cartel is much more sophisticated than La Puta Madre's, if only because they have ventured into other shady enterprises aside from the drug trade. Namely, prostitution, the arms trade, human trafficking, and, most recently, if the rumors are true...</p><p>Pinball parlors. </p><p> </p><p><strong>PERCEPTION (SIGHT) </strong>[Heroic: Success] - Your eyes immediately shoot towards the east, across the waterway, where the faint outline of a large, two-story pinball parlor stands like a distant, garish spectre in the morning fog...</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - "Jean," you say absently. "Think this has anything to do with that pinball emporium over there?"</p><p><strong>JEAN VICQUEMARE</strong> - He blinks at you. "What are you talking about? We found playing cards on them, not fucking flippers."</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - You narrow your eyes at the horizon. "I don't know... Call it a hunch," you say. </p><p><strong>EMPATHY</strong> [Easy: Success] - The lieutenant is still looking at you skeptically, but he's worked with you long enough to know that some of your hunches are more reliable than the flimsy deductions that other detectives make.</p><p><strong>JEAN VICQUEMARE</strong> - He sighs and jots something down on his notebook. "Alright, Harry. Your hunch has been duly noted. Now," he says, "what did we find out from the car?"</p><p> </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - "LUM Fevre '50, no plate, driven at high speed across the bridge--" You point at the narrow bridge connecting the fishing village to the rest of the waterfront. "--down the road, over that hill, where it swiped against that poor tree," Your finger lands on the tree with the badly scraped trunk by the hill, before tracing the car's estimated trajectory in the air, "and launched into the ocean."</p><p><strong>JEAN VICQUEMARE</strong> - "That path's consistent with the skid marks that we've found and the damage to the MC. Perp must have jumped out of the car before it hurtled into the water."</p><p><strong>VISUAL CALCULUS</strong> [Medium: Success] - The dead man was considerably large, and the driver's compartment of the Fevre is roomy, but it would still be a tight fit for two...</p><p> </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - You puff on your cigarette. "We're looking for someone slender," you tell Jean pensively. "Someone who can fit between that hulk of a man and the steering wheel. Someone who knows how to drive a car like that fast enough without losing control of it..."</p><p><strong>JEAN VICQUEMARE</strong> - He nods, impressed by your deduction.</p><p>"Sounds like a speedfreak to me," he says.</p><p><strong>ENCYCLOPEDIA</strong> [Medium: Success] - The lieutenant is referring to the radio station called Speedfreaks FM, frequency 78.9, popular among car enthusiasts and juvenile delinquents. The station is the self-proclaimed best source of the hottest, nastiest, most vulgar, and fastest music in Revachol Rock City, and is home to two extremely loud and extremely excited DJs named Mesh and Flacio.</p><p> </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - You gesture at the windswept desolation around you. "Lucky for us, that kind of person would be pretty easy to spot in a place like this," you say. </p><p><strong>JEAN VICQUEMARE</strong> - "Yeah," he mutters darkly. "Lucky for us."</p><p><strong>EMPATHY</strong> [Challenging: Success] - He's still worried that the case is related to the Mazda, but knowing the lieutenant, he'll just squash all of his fear and stubbornly power through this case, no matter how bad things get.</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - You pat him heartily on the back.</p><p>"Cheer up, Jean. We'll crack this case open within the week. I can<em> feel</em> it," you say with a confident grin.</p><p> </p><p><strong>JEAN VICQUEMARE</strong> - He gives you a withering glare.</p><p><strong>PERCEPTION (SIGHT)</strong> [Legendary: Success] - But the corners of his lips quirk up a tiny, microscopic bit.</p><p><strong>JEAN VICQUEMARE</strong> - "I'll hold you to that, Mullen," he says as he stubs out his cigarette on the sole of his shoe. "Anything else that we need to cover?"</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - Stroking your chin thoughtfully, you go through the evidence that you gathered this morning to see if you missed anything. </p><p>"We ordered a toxicology report on those two, right?" you ask Jean.</p><p><strong>JEAN VICQUEMARE</strong> - He nods. "Yes, that's what we requested as our single test. Do you want to change it?"</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - You shake your head. "No, just making sure. If these two are related to the cartels, then we should get very interesting results from their bloodwork. Oh, and we have to tell Oldboy to call up LUM and ask for those records," you remind him.</p><p><strong>JEAN VICQUEMARE</strong> - "Got it. I'll go over and radio him once we're done here. Are we going to go around and gather statements from the residents?" he asks, jerking a thumb towards the ramshackle houses behind the swing.</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - "Yeah, let's---"</p><p> </p><p><strong>PAIN THRESHOLD</strong> [Challenging: Failure] - But your sentence is abruptly cut off by the loud, plaintive growl of your empty stomach.</p><p><strong>COMPOSURE</strong> [Legendary: Success] - You school your face into an expressionless mask.</p><p><strong>JEAN VICQUEMARE</strong> - Beside you, Jean lets out a barking laugh.</p><p>"That sounded like a fucking sea monster," he says with a grin. </p><p><strong>COMPOSURE</strong> [Legendary: Success] - You cough into your fist to hide the wince on your face.</p><p><strong>JEAN VICQUEMARE</strong> - "Okay, what about this?" he says, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. "We head into town, grab some breakfast, and then we can go wild gathering those statements."</p><p><strong>PAIN THRESHOLD</strong> - If you want to keep your stomach lining ulcer-free, you might want to take up the lieutenant's offer <em>right now</em>. </p><p><strong>LOGIC</strong> - And besides, you're in no condition to be going around analyzing the statements of multiple witnesses if you can't even get something useful out of a corpse.</p><p> </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - Sighing, you give Jean a resigned nod.</p><p>"Okay, let's go get breakfast," you say.</p><p><strong>ENDURANCE</strong> - Woohoo! Eggs. Sausages. Bacon. Coffee. <em>Pancakes</em>. </p><p><strong>EMPATHY</strong> [Easy: Success] - Lt. Vicquemare is relieved that you agreed with his suggestion, because he's just as famished as you are.</p><p><strong>JEAN VICQUEMARE</strong> - He stands up from the swing and stretches languorously. </p><p>"I'll go and radio Jules, then let's head out," he says.</p><p>Then, he extends his fist towards you.</p><p> </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - You smile. </p><p>And bump his fist with yours.</p><p> </p><p><strong>JEAN VICQUEMARE</strong> - "Bastards won't know what hit 'em," he says with a wolfish grin before marching towards his MC. </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - As Jean walks away, you sit on the swing for a few more moments, quietly contemplating the peaceful morning vista in front of you.</p><p><strong>PERCEPTION</strong> [Easy: Success] - The sun has emerged from the horizon, casting a pale, cold light on the misty dawn and on the shimmering ocean. All is quiet, except for the gentle lapping of waves, the rustling of bare branches, and the distant calls of seagulls...</p><p> </p><p><strong>INLAND EMPIRE</strong> [Formidable: Success] - Suddenly, propelled by a mysterious, unstoppable urge, a question launches itself out of your mouth---</p><p>"Would you rather sit on an anthill for an hour, or stand in a river of leeches?" you ask the wind.</p><p> </p><p><strong>??? ?????????</strong> - "Well..." he rubs his chin. "Historically, leeches have been used to prevent and even cure many ailments..."</p><p> </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - You turn to look at him. "Well, napalm ants are used in some---"</p><p>But there’s no one beside you.</p><p>Only an empty, rusty swing, creaking in the wind.</p><p> </p><p><strong>LOGIC</strong> [Legendary: Failure] - Who were you talking to? </p><p><strong>PERCEPTION (SIGHT)</strong> [Legendary: Failure] - Who did you expect to see?</p><p><strong>PAIN THRESHOLD</strong> [Legendary: Failure] - And why...</p><p>Why does your heart hurt so much?</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>From the flimsy shelter of her living room curtains, Lilienne Carter watches the two detectives drive towards the bridge. </p><p>Then, mindful of the three, slumbering children on the worn-out bed in the corner of the room, she silently pads over to the recently-installed telephone on the lintel of her fireplace and dials a number.</p><p>The phone rings twice before someone picks it up.</p><p> </p><p>"They're on their way there," she whispers into the phone. "Two of them. One in a green blazer, the other in a black suit."</p><p>Lilienne stays silent as the person on the other end of the phone asks her a question.</p><p>Meanwhile, she sees a little body rise up from the bed and rub its face sleepily. </p><p>"Yes, they found the bodies," she says. "But no, they didn't get to talk to anyone. I have a feeling they'll come back later for that."</p><p>The voice on the phone tells her something.</p><p>"We will," she says, her voice becoming softer, gentler. "You take care too."</p><p> </p><p>Then, she hangs up and walks over to her little daughter, who is now yawning beside the bed while hugging her stuffed lamb. </p><p>"Maman," Lily whispers, and Lilienne crouches down to press a kiss against her daughter's forehead.</p><p>"You should still be in bed, ma chérie," Lilienne chides gently, tucking a stray strand of hair behind Lily's ear. </p><p> </p><p>"But I heard you talking to someone," Lily whines plaintively. "Who was it?"</p><p>Lilienne cannot help but smile at her daughter's curiosity. "It was your Uncle Titus, little one."</p><p>At the sound of that name, Lily gasps in excitement. "Is he gonna come over and play with us again? He promised to have a tea party with Lamby and me!"</p><p>Throwing an alarmed look at her still-sleeping twins, Lilienne gently shushes Lily and gives her an apologetic look. "I'm so sorry... But Uncle Titus said that he was going to be very busy at the docks today." </p><p> </p><p>Lily's face crumples into a pout.</p><p>"Is it...Is it because of the accident?" she asks quietly.</p><p>Lilienne nods. "Yes, it is. But don't worry, love. Your Uncle Titus is working hard to make sure that everything turns out well for everyone."</p><p>Lily considers this for a moment. </p><p>"I hope those people didn't get hurt," she whispers, hugging Lamby closer to her chest. </p><p> </p><p>Lilienne quietly strokes her daughter's hair, marveling at the goodness of her little heart.</p><p>"Don't worry, ma chérie. I have a feeling they're not hurting anymore now," she says truthfully. </p><p>Lily brightens up immediately. </p><p> </p><p>"By the way, darling," Lilienne whispers as she peers into Lily's face. "Do you remember what your Uncle Eugene told you last night? About what you should say when the policemen come and ask you questions?"</p><p>Lily nods and puffs out her tiny chest. "I heard a big noise coming from the ocean, but my brave, beautiful mama tucked me back to bed and went out to kill the sea monster with her sword," she says confidently.</p><p> </p><p>And how can Lilienne not smile after that little spiel?</p><p>"Excellent. What a smart little girl my daughter is," she says, patting Lily on the cheek.</p><p>Lily giggles. </p><p>"Now, go back to bed, and I'll go and prepare our breakfast," Lilienne says.</p><p> </p><p>Lily nods enthusiastically, but ends up stifling a yawn behind her small fist.</p><p>"Okay, maman. Can we have some scrambled eggs please?" she asks sleepily.</p><p>"Of course. All the scrambled eggs in the entire Martinaise for my little princess."</p><p>When Lily beams at her joyfully, Lilienne feels her cold, jaded heart melt just a bit more. </p><p> </p><p>After a few minutes of making sure that all of her children are still sleeping, Lilienne walks over to the large, wooden chest at the foot of their bed where the children store their toys.</p><p>She takes a key from her pocket and quietly opens the chest.</p><p>She raises its lid, and contemplates the chest's contents for a moment.</p><p>Then, she comes to a decision. </p><p> </p><p>She reaches into the chest and brings out a canvas pouch containing a flat, rectangular object...</p><p>Then, after donning her raincoat and her work boots, Lilienne Carter leaves her home, borrows a shovel from one of her neighbors, and buries the license plate three feet underground.</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Several lines from this chapter were taken directly from the in-game dialogue between Harry and Kim as they sat on the swings, waiting for the tide to recede.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Whirling in Rags</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>It’s 6:15 AM in the cheerful, sprawling shithole known as Martinaise, and Lt. Jean Vicquemare is absolutely famished.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Standing beside his parked MC, he shoves his freezing hands into his pockets and peers at the glass-paned structure in front of him. Despite how early it is, there are already white, fluorescent lights beaming through the hostel's windows, and Jean is dying to go inside so that he can remember what it’s like to be warm again. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Whirling-in-Rags, huh,” he mutters to himself as he squints up at the bright, neon letters at the side of the building. “Weird name.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s from a song,” someone says beside him, and Jean turns to look at his partner, Harry Du Bois, who looks far less bothered by the cold than Jean is. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It's all that belly fat </span>
  </em>
  <span>, a small, malicious voice in Jean’s mind says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Hail Holy Queen</span>
  </em>
  <span> by the Etenniers,” Harry continues, seemingly oblivious to Jean’s envy at his stupendous body warmth. “Whoever owns this place has great taste in music.”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Jean rolls his eyes. While he'd be the first to say that Harry is the finest detective that he's ever had the pleasure to work with, he'd also be the first to denounce his partner's weird obsession with all things discothèque. Jean’s pretty sure that at least 75% of Harry’s wardrobe consists of garish blazers, flare-cut trousers, and neon-colored accessories, and he's lost count of how many times he's snapped at Harry to stop humming that blasted Ostentatious Orchestrations song during their stake-outs.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Dear god </span>
  </em>
  <span>, Jean prays silently to any deity who might be listening. </span>
  <em>
    <span>If you really exist, please don’t let there be a karaoke machine inside that building. </span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>...And if there is, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he adds as an afterthought, </span>
  <em>
    <span>please strike it down with lightning when we go in </span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>It's not that Harry's singing was bad. He was actually pretty decent at it, and he was pretty much the king of singing karaoke with actual </span>
  <em>
    <span>feelings</span>
  </em>
  <span>. It's just that whenever Harry sees a karaoke stand, he gravitates towards it like an asteroid hurtling towards an unfortunate planet. This wouldn't have been so troublesome if it only happened during drunken office parties, but no. It happened </span>
  <em>
    <span>all the time</span>
  </em>
  <span>, even while he and Jean were in the middle of some very important police work, like interviewing a group of traumatized bouncers, or doing a field autopsy of a horribly mutilated pole-dancer...</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jean loves Harry like a brother, but sometimes, you just gotta punch your brother in the gut and drag him away from a microphone for your own sanity and the safety of the general public. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Sighing, Jean starts walking towards the hostel's entrance. "Let's just go in and get some fucking breakfast," he mutters.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harry hums in assent and trails after him---</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But just as Jean's about to open the door to the Whirling, he notices that Harry's stopped a few feet behind him. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Startled, Jean looks back and sees Harry staring at something to their left---</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Jean follows his partner's gaze, his eyes land on a perfectly ordinary, gated fence between the Whirling and the entrance to a large, pinball arcade...</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Something the matter, Harry?" Jean asks quietly. It's the fourth time that Harry's spaced out like this in the past three hours, and Jean isn't afraid to admit that he's getting damned worried about the other man. Harry can be eccentric, yes, but these strange, staring spells are...unusual, even for him.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harry remains silent for a moment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Jean," he eventually says, his voice low and perplexed, "I could've sworn that fence was smashed wide open." </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Jean blinks at Harry before looking at the fence again, which seems very much whole and unsmashed from where he's standing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He swallows down the apprehension that crawls up his throat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Harry," he says, in a carefully modulated voice. "I don't see anything wrong with the fence."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That seems to shake Harry out from the trance that he was in.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yeah. Yeah, you're right," Harry says with a sheepish smile on his face. "Sorry about that, Jean. My mind's just playing tricks on me, I guess."</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Jean frowns. Back at the swings, Harry said that he felt fine after the autopsy, and Jean took his word for it. But now...</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You're worrying too much, Vicquemare</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he tells himself. </span>
  <em>
    <span>You're both tired and hungry, and you're only a few feet away from the nearest source of food</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Armed with that soothing, rational thought, Jean hooks an arm around Harry's shoulders and steers him towards the entrance of the Whirling. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Come on, Harry," he says, "Let's get some food into you and reset that crazy brain of yours."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harry offers him no resistance, and Jean feels his partner's shoulder sag under his arm in gratitude and relief.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>The interior of the Whirling is as bright and blessedly warm as Jean hoped it would be. The floor is covered in green and white geometric patterns, and Jean spots two pinball machines to the left of the entrance. A metal counter runs along the entire length of the right wall, and the space between the counter and the central pillars is occupied with long tables and benches. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sending up one last prayer to heaven, Jean cranes his neck to peer at what's behind the pillars...</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span>," he says vehemently, startling Harry, who's standing right beside him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What? What's over there?" Harry asks, and before Jean can cover his partner's eyes, he's already looking at the back of the room.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Then, to Jean's horror, Harry's eyes begin to widen like twin saucers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Jean," he says, in a quiet and reverent voice. "They have </span>
  <em>
    <span>karaoke</span>
  </em>
  <span>."</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You've just lost one believer</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Jean mutters darkly at the deity who failed to hurl lightning at the karaoke machine at the back of the room. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No, Harry. We're going to get breakfast first, then we're going back to the fishing village and---"</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>But before Jean can finish his sentence, Harry's already striding towards the bar at the other end of the room.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cursing under his breath, Jean hurries after Harry and catches up to him just in time to hear the bartender's greeting.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Hello, gentlemen," the bartender says in a nasal, snooty-sounding voice. "How may I help you today?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before Harry can respond with something mortifying like, "Good morning, citizen, I need to sing karaoke now," Jean smacks his palm over Harry's mouth and whips out his badge with his other hand. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>"Good morning," Jean says quickly. "Detectives Du Bois and Vicquemare from Precinct 41 of the Revachol Citizens Milita. We're just here to grab some breakfast, Mister...?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Garte," the bartender says. "Lawrence Garte. May I also see the other gentleman's badge, please?"</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Round face, uneven stubble, probably in his late twenties,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Jean's mind immediately deduces.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With Jean's hand still firmly stuck to his mouth, Harry flashes his badge to the bartender. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he's finally convinced that Harry won't propel himself onto the karaoke machine, Jean removes his hand and clears his throat. "So, what do you have on the breakfast menu, bartender?" he asks.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Garte immediately bristles at his words.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Bartender?" he says, in an affronted tone. "I'll have you know that I'm the manager of this fine establishment."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jean blinks. "Oh, sorry. It's just that you're standing here at the bar, so---"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Garte scoffs and crosses his arms over his chest. "I'm just standing in for an employee of mine who called in sick this morning," he says. "And also, this is a </span>
  <em>
    <span>cafeteria</span>
  </em>
  <span>, not a bar."</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>"Sorry for my partner's presumptions, Mr. Garte," Harry smoothly cuts in. "We've both had a rough morning, and we'd love to sample the breakfast of your fine ba--cafeteria," he finishes with a smile.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Garte raises an eyebrow at Harry's attempt to assuage him, but he hands over the menu to them anyway. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"We usually don't accept orders this early, but I'll make an exception for the sake of supporting the Militia's peacekeeping efforts," Garte says, in a tone that implies that he doesn't think very highly at all about the RCM's peacekeeping efforts.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jean lets the comment slide and peruses the menu. He orders a plate of scrambled eggs and sausages for himself, while Harry orders the pancakes, two fried eggs, and a side of bacon. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Oh, and coffee for the both of us, please," Harry adds. "Black for me, and two sugars for him." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The prospect of having another warm cup of coffee makes Jean feel better already.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>"So," Harry says, when he and Jean have perched themselves on a couple of bar stools. "Your bartender called in sick this morning?" he asks Garte.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jean raises an eyebrow at Harry's question, but his partner just gives him a quick look that says, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Trust me on this</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Garte sniffs haughtily. "Yes. Said she got the flu, but she actually sounded fine over the phone... She's usually a very good worker though, so I gave her the benefit of the doubt." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Huh." Harry leans his elbows on the counter. "So she was still here last night then?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yes. We usually close at around midnight, and Sylvie's the one in charge of closing up," Garte says, his face belying his utter lack of enthusiasm at the prospect of taking on that responsibility for himself tonight.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Jean shoots a meaningful look at Harry, who gives him an encouraging nod. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Interesting. Any chance that we can get her number, Mr. Garte?" Jean asks. "We're investigating a car accident that occurred by the fishing village, and Sylvie might've seen or heard something last night."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Shrugging nonchalantly, Garte shrugs and takes a pen from the counter to scribble a series of numbers on a napkin. "Here you go, officers. But she might be asleep when you call her. She's sick, after all."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jean takes the napkin and tucks it into his coat pocket. "Thank you, Mr. Garte. We'll extend your well-wishes to Sylvie when we get to talk to her." </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Garte actually straightens his vest at that, and Jean instantly guesses that the cafeteria manager might have a more...personal interest in Sylvie's well-being than he lets on.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Actually, Mr. Garte. Would you mind answering a few questions?" Jean asks. "We just arrived here this morning, and we'd appreciate it if you helped us get the lay of the land."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Garte nods. "Of course, Detective. But just to let you know, I don't actually live here. I'm from Jamrock, so I'm not sure how much I can tell you about this place."</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>"It's alright," Harry says with a reassuring smile. "You probably still know more than we do. But before we begin, did you name this cafeteria after that song by the Etenniers...?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Garte's face instantly brightens up. "Why yes, I did. I'm glad that you caught that reference, Detective," he says. "'</span>
  <em>
    <span>Hail holy queen of the sea</span>
  </em>
  <span>---'"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"'</span>
  <em>
    <span>You're whirling in rags, you're vast and you're sad</span>
  </em>
  <span>,'" Harry continues with a wide grin. "Actually, Garte, the </span>
  <em>
    <span>Smallest Church in Saint-Saëns </span>
  </em>
  <span>happens to be my favorite karaoke song," he says, and Jean winces sharply at the sound of the K-word.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Garte's eyebrows shoot up his forehead. "That's...a very sad song to sing for karaoke, Detective," he says. "Oh, and in case you're wondering, our karaoke bar is closed indefinitely due to an unfortunate...incident that occurred a few days ago."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harry's face crumples so pathetically at the news that even if Jean's happy to hear what Garte just said, he can't help but pat Harry comfortingly on the back.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>"Thanks for letting us know, Garte" Jean says sincerely, while Harry tries to project the facade that he's absolutely okay with the karaoke bar being closed. "By any chance," Jean says, as he takes out a photo from his jacket pocket, "would you happen to have seen this MC around the area before?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jean shows Garte the photo of the crashed LUM Fevre '50, which Harry took shortly after the woman's autopsy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Garte examines the photo with a frown on his face. "Can't say that I have, Detective," he says. "I only drop by here occasionally for work, though, so I might not be the best one to ask."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Any idea whom we </span>
  <em>
    <span>could</span>
  </em>
  <span> ask, Mr. Garte?" Harry asks, having regained his composure enough to act like a detective again.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Tapping a finger on his unevenly shaved chin, Garte hums to himself. "Well...You could ask the neighborhood mechanic. He lives around here, and he should be working at the shed behind the Whirling by the time you finish breakfast," he says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As if on cue, the door to the kitchen opens, and the delectable smell of cooked meat and freshly brewed coffee punches Jean in the face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>Petit déjeuner pour deux</span>
  </em>
  <span>?" the elderly cook asks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>Oui oui,</span>
  </em>
  <span>" Harry says with a nod so vigorous that Jean worries that he might break his neck.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>"Enjoy your breakfasts, Detectives," Garte says. "Let me know if you need anything else."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Thanks, Garte," Harry says. Then, he seem to remember something. "Would you happen to have any rooms available here for tonight, by any chance?" he asks. "My partner and I might want to stay overnight here for the rest of the investigation."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jean arches an eyebrow at Harry. </span>
  <em>
    <span>We do?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Harry nods at him. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Yes, we do.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>"Of course," Garte says. "Our largest room is currently occupied by another guest, but we still have two rooms available. That is, if you don't mind sharing a common bathroom with each other..."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harry looks at Jean. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Do you mind?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Jean shakes his head. </span>
  <em>
    <span>No, I don't. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>"Alright, we'll take those two rooms," Harry says. "Kindly reserve them for us, and we'll check in later after exploring the neighborhood."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Done," Garte says. "Thank you for your patronage, gentlemen. I hope you enjoy your meals."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As one, Harry and Jean look at the two steaming plates of greasy food that the cook set on one of the long tables...</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Oh, we'll enjoy them, alright," Harry says with a look of gleeful anticipation.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>By the time they finish inhaling their respective breakfasts, Harry is back to his normal, affable self, and Jean feels like a functional human being again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"That's it. We're </span>
  <em>
    <span>definitely</span>
  </em>
  <span> staying here overnight," Harry says with finality. "I can't wait to have this breakfast again tomorrow."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"We're here to solve a case, Mullen, not to go on a honeymoon in a tiny seaside town," Jean says without any venom, since he's pretty happy with this breakfast too. "So what's the plan?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harry rubs his chin thoughtfully. "We could go and talk to the mechanic that Garte mentioned. Then we can check out the neighborhood before heading to the fishing village again to gather the statements of the residents."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jean nods. "When we're done with all that, I might need to go back home and pick up some clothes for tonight. What about you?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harry shakes his head. "I'll stay. I still have some spare clothes at the back of my MC, and I'll just buy my toiletries from the Frittte down the street."</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>With that settled, the two of them stand up from their table and start walking back to the entrance.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But before they can reach the door, Jean bumps into a stocky, muscular man who was on his way in. "Oh, sorry---"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Watch where you're going, pig," the blonde man growls out, and Jean is surprised by the vicious hatred in his eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They glare at each other for a few tense moments, and even as Jean tenses up for a fight, he sees Harry in the corner of his eye getting ready to intervene---</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But someone beats Harry to it. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>"Stop it, Glen," a gruff voice says by the entrance, but the blonde man continues to glare at Jean like an angry Viking god.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Bastard bumped into me, Titus," Glen says, and his tone makes Jean's fists clench in restrained anger. "Didn't even apologize---"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I </span>
  <em>
    <span>did</span>
  </em>
  <span> apologize, you dumb blonde," Jean growls out and, because he never knew when to back off from a fight, he adds, "Or are you dumb </span>
  <em>
    <span>and</span>
  </em>
  <span> deaf?"</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Jean sees something snap behind Glen's eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Filthy pig---" he growls out, and Jean gets ready to block the inevitable punch that's about to be thrown at his face---</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"GLEN!" the gruff voice yells out, and before Jean knows it, Glen's being restrained by a pair of muscular arms, and Harry's moved to stand between him and those goons.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You okay, Jean?" Harry asks, glancing over his shoulder to check on Jean while warily looking at the two men in front of him. From over Harry's shoulder, Jean can see Glen still glaring daggers at them, but it's his companion who catches Jean's eye. The other man--Titus, Jean recalls Glen saying--is just as tall as Glen. He's broad at the shoulders and narrow at the hips, and judging from his build, Jean has the feeling that Titus is either a retired football or rugby player...</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Short dark hair. Sharp features. Looks like a natural-born leader</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Jean's mind quickly reads. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shifts his eyes to Glen.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Stupid blonde bastard</span>
  </em>
  <span>, his mind concludes. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>"Sorry about that, gentlemen," Harry says placatingly. "We were just on our way out. Didn't mean to cause any trouble."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No worries," Titus says, in a flippant tone. "My buddy here--" He gives Glen a hearty smack at the back of the skull, "should've been watching where he was going," he says loudly, and Jean decides that Titus is definitely the more likable one of the two.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What?! But he's the one who ran into me---" Glen yells, but Titus silences him with a hard glare.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"As I was saying," Titus says, "we didn't mean to cause any trouble too. Sorry about that, officers."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harry gives Titus a grateful smile. "No harm done. Right, Jean?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jean is busy returning the stink eye that Glen's still giving him, but he manages to say, "Yeah, no harm done."</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>"Glad to hear that," Titus says. "We'll be on our way then. If you'll excuse us.."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And with that, Titus grabs Glen by the collar of his jacket and drags him towards the bar, where Garte has been watching their exchange with nervous apprehension.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Breathing a sigh of relief, Harry grabs Jean by the arm and tugs him out of the Whirling. "I swear, Vicquemare," he says, "that temper of yours is going to get you </span>
  <em>
    <span>killed</span>
  </em>
  <span> one day." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Resisting the urge to pout at Harry, Jean shoves his hands into his pockets like a grumpy teenager. "He bumped into me first," he mutters.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harry gapes at him incredulously. "We’ve barely been here for four hours, and you're already picking fights with the locals! Come on, Jean," he says, with a pleading tone. "We want to be the good guys here. Or else they'll just clam up when we start asking them questions."</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>There are many, many things that Jean enjoys about being Harry's partner, but if there's one thing that he absolutely hates, it's when Harry calls him out when he fucks something up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jean glares at the ground in front of him for a moment longer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then, he sighs in defeat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Sorry, Harry," he mumbles, massaging the bridge of his nose. "I...I don't know what came over me."</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Jean knows that Harry will never harbor a grudge against him, no matter how badly Jean fucks up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But that doesn't mean that Jean has to forgive himself for being such an irascible dick.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>"Jean," Harry says, and Jean winces at how fucking gentle his partner's tone is. "It's okay. I just...got worried there for a moment. But we're fine. You're fine."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even as he hears those words, Jean continues to glare at the ground, stewing in a heady mix of barely restrained violence, frustration, and self-loathing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His furious reverie is interrupted when Harry places his fist in the air in front of Jean. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Come on, partner" Harry says, with a smile in his voice. "It'll take more than that to bring you down."</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>And how can Jean stay angry at himself after hearing that?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He releases all of his pent-up bitterness in a heavy sigh before bumping Harry's fist with his own.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Thanks, Harry," he says sincerely.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Harry grins at him. "Anytime," he says. Then, he turns to look at the fenced gate again, which is now wide open. Beyond it, Jean spies a large trash bin, and what seems to be a wooden shed...</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Ready to interview that mechanic?" Harry asks him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jean nods. "Let's go," he says. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>They enter the gate together, and the first thing that Jean notices is the sound of rock music blaring from the car in the shed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jean frowns. He doesn't recognize the song, but he can't help but feel that it's related to something that Harry said earlier...</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then, the song ends, and the loud voice of a DJ blares through the backyard.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"H-H-H-H-H-EY THERE S-S-S-S-SPEEDFREAKSSSS!!!!"</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Jean's mouth drops open.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It...It can't be this easy,</span>
  </em>
  <span> he thinks to himself incredulously. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Right?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>But before he can say this to Harry, the other man is already crossing the backyard and walking towards the shed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jean hurries after Harry, and spots the mechanic from a few feet away. He's lying underneath the car, and only the lower half of his body is visible from where Jean and Harry are standing. He's wearing khaki cargo pants and a pair of sturdy, black boots. A bright orange bomber jacket is draped over one of the rear-view mirrors, and Jean frowns as he tries to identify the round symbol emblazoned on its back...</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then, a new song starts to play on the radio, and Jean's train of thought is violently derailed by lyrics that are so loud and obscene that he wonders how half of the neighborhood hasn't woken up from the racket.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"EXCUSE ME, SIR!" Harry hollers over the cacophony of heavy metal and punk rock. "CAN WE SPEAK TO YOU FOR A MOMENT?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Seemingly oblivious to their presence, the mechanic continues to tinker with the underside of the car.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"EXCUSE ME, SIR!!!" Harry hollers again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That seems to get the mechanic's attention. He slides out from underneath the motor carriage, and Jean is surprised by what he sees. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He isn't really sure what he was expecting--maybe a beefcake like Titus or Glen--but he wasn't expecting a slender, bespectacled Seolite man. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Intelligent, unassuming, roughly the same age as Harry</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Jean's mind automatically deduces. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The mechanic adjusts his glasses and peers up at them curiously.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jean gestures vigorously at him to lower the volume of the radio, which the other man quickly picks up on. He stands up from the ground and reaches into the MC...</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>And just like that, the noise disappears, only to be replaced by a silence so loud that it makes Jean's ears ring.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Emerging from the MC, the Seolite man takes a rag from the hood of the car and starts wiping his hands with it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"How can I help you, gentlemen?" he asks, and Jean detects no trace of an accent in his calm, even voice.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Jean waits for Harry to introduce them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He waits some more.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then, after a few more awkward seconds, he looks at Harry with a perplexed frown---</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And what he sees chills him to the core. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Harry's face is pale---far paler than Jean has ever seen it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He's staring at the Seolite man with wide, disbelieving eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He seems to be on the verge of tears.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then, before Jean can ask Harry what's wrong, Harry opens his mouth and says a single, trembling word---</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>"...Kim?"</span>
</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. The Mechanic</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p><b>YOU</b> - “...Kim?”</p><p><b>INLAND EMPIRE</b> - <em> It’s him. </em></p><p><b>COMPOSURE </b>[Impossible: Failure] - What---</p><p><b>CONCEPTUALIZATION</b> - <em> It’s him.  </em></p><p><b>AUTHORITY</b> [Impossible: Failure] - They’re not listening---</p><p><b>EMPATHY</b> - <em> It’s him.  </em></p><p><b>LOGIC</b> [Impossible: Failure] - You don’t know him---</p><p> </p><p><b>INLAND EMPIRE</b> [Legendary: Success] - <b> No. </b></p><p>You know him.</p><p>You have always known him.</p><p>You will<em> always</em> know him. </p><p> </p><p><b>KIM ????????? </b>- He stands before you, his eyes wide and surprised, his hands paused mid-wipe against a dirty, oil-stained rag, clad in a white undershirt, cargo pants, boots. His bomber jacket is hanging on a side-mirror, and you want to take the jacket and drape it around his shoulders to protect his slender frame from the cold, rustling breeze that rakes across the yard---</p><p><b>PERCEPTION (SIGHT)</b> [Trivial: Easy] - There’s a smudge of oil on his cheek, and you want to reach out and brush it off with the pad of your thumb---</p><p><b>ELECTROCHEMISTRY</b> - His mouth is slightly open, and you want to brush your knuckles against his lips before claiming them with your own---</p><p><b>COMPOSURE</b> [Impossible: Failure] - Your eyes are wet. Your jaw is slack. Your skin is cold and clammy.</p><p><b>VOLITION</b> [Impossible: Failure] - And your body is rooted in place, completely and utterly paralyzed by his impossible presence.</p><p> </p><p><b>KIM ????????? </b>- A perplexed frown crosses his face, and you are suddenly seized by an overwhelming desire to make that frown go away and replace it with one of his small, devastating smiles…</p><p>“I’m sorry… But have we met before?” he asks. </p><p> </p><p><b>DRAMA </b>[Legendary: Success] - A genuine question, sire.</p><p>He truly...</p><p>Does not know you.</p><p> </p><p><b>PAIN THRESHOLD</b> [Godly: Failure] - That realization hits you like a punch in the gut. Your heart clenches painfully in your chest. Your breathing becomes labored. Your vision starts to swim---</p><p> </p><p><b>LOGIC</b> [Legendary: Success] - <b>Listen to me.</b></p><p>You do not know this man.</p><p>You have never met him.</p><p>He has never met you.</p><p> </p><p><b>YOU</b> - But---</p><p> </p><p><b>AUTHORITY</b> [Legendary: Success] - <strong>That’s <em> it. </em></strong></p><p>We will take over from here.</p><p><b>VOLITION</b> [Legendary: Success] - A mysterious force takes over your body, and your throat regains the ability to produce human speech. </p><p><b>YOU</b> - What…what are you doing---</p><p> </p><p><b>RHETORIC</b> [Legendary: Success] - “I’m sorry,” you hear yourself say, in a voice that sounds too calm and composed to be your own. “I must’ve mistaken you for someone else, Mister…?”</p><p><b>KIM ????????? </b> - He relaxes a bit at the answer that propelled itself from your mouth, and you want nothing more than to tell him the truth, that you <em> have </em> met before, in another world, another lifetime---</p><p>“Kitsuragi,” he says. “Kim Kitsuragi.”</p><p> </p><p><b>INLAND EMPIRE </b> - <em> “Lieutenant, Precinct 57. You must be from the 41st…”  </em></p><p>
  <em> His grip is firm. His eyes are narrowed. His posture is ramrod straight. </em>
</p><p> </p><p><b>JEAN VICQUEMARE </b>- “Good morning, Mr. Kitsuragi. We hope we're not interrupting anything,” Jean suddenly says from beside you. </p><p><b>COMPOSURE</b> [Legendary: Success] - You’ve completely forgotten about Jean, and you almost jump up in surprise at his voice. </p><p><b>EMPATHY </b>[Formidable: Success] - The lieutenant's absolutely baffled at how you were able to guess the name of a man that you've clearly never met before. He's also noticed how frazzled you are, so he’s doing you a favor by buying you some time to give you a chance to get your shit together. </p><p>So please, Harry. For the sake of your poor, distressed partner…</p><p> </p><p><b>VOLITION</b> [Legendary: Success] - <b>Get your shit together</b><b>. </b></p><p> </p><p><b>YOU </b>- Shaken by the vehemence of the voices within your mind, you crash back down to earth, thoroughly disoriented by the bizarre turn of events.</p><p> </p><p><b>AUTHORITY</b> - I am relinquishing control back to you.</p><p>Do not make me do this again.</p><p> </p><p><b>YOU</b> - ...Alright.</p><p>... Thank you. Everyone.</p><p>You clear your throat in a vain attempt to project an air of calm and nonchalance. "Good morning, Mr. Kitsuragi--"</p><p> </p><p><strong>PAIN THRESHOLD</strong> [Godly: Failure] - A stab of pain rams through your heart as you address him like a stranger.</p><p> </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - Clenching your fists, you push through the agony and finish your sentence.</p><p>"--I apologize for my earlier behavior," you say. "I'm Detective Harry Du Bois."</p><p>You pause for the briefest second to check for the smallest flicker of recognition on his eyes.</p><p> </p><p><strong>KIM KITSURAGI</strong> - But he just looks at you patiently, with a guarded and curious expression on his face.</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - "From Precinct 41. Of the Revachol Citizens Militia," you say, desperately hoping against hope that he will finally, <em>finally</em> recognize you---</p><p><strong>KIM KITSURAGI</strong> - But he just gives you a polite nod and shifts his attention to Jean.</p><p><strong>PAIN THRESHOLD</strong> [Godly: Failure] - WHY IS HE LOOKING AWAY HE SHOULDN'T BE LOOKING AWAY HE SHOULD BE LOOKING AT YOU---</p><p> </p><p><strong>JEAN VICQUEMARE</strong> - "And I'm his partner, Detective Jean Vicquemare," Jean says.</p><p><strong>PERCEPTION (SIGHT)</strong> [Challenging: Success] - The expression on the lieutenant's face conveys that he might have been expecting too much when he expected you to be the one to introduce him.</p><p><strong>EMPATHY</strong> [Formidable: Success] - Jean is deeply confused, anxious, and slightly irritated at how you are behaving. </p><p>You will have a <em>very</em> interesting conversation with him later on.</p><p> </p><p><strong>KIM KITSURAGI</strong> - "Pleased to meet you, Detectives," he says. "Is there anything I can help you with?"</p><p><strong>COMPOSURE</strong> [Medium: Success] - Despite his casual appearance, his posture is impeccable--back straight, shoulders relaxed, head held high enough to show confidence, but not arrogance. Behind his glasses, his gaze is calm and steady.</p><p><b>AUTHORITY</b> [Medium: Success] - This man doesn't look the slightest bit intimidated to be in the presence of two police officers. He carries himself with an uncanny level of authority for a mere mechanic...</p><p><strong>HALF-LIGHT</strong> [Formidable: Success] - There is more to him than meets the eye.</p><p>Tread carefully. </p><p> </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - "We're here to investigate a car crash that happened in the fishing village nearby," you say, with a voice that miraculously doesn't tremble. "The owner of the hostel over there," you tilt your head towards the Whirling, "told us that you might be able to help us out."</p><p><strong>COMPOSURE</strong> [Legendary: Success] - You're feeling much more steady now, and your thoughts are starting to settle down too.</p><p><strong>PERCEPTION</strong> [Medium: Success] - From the corner of your eye, you spot Jean breathe a small sigh of relief.</p><p><strong>EMPATHY</strong> [Formidable: Success] - He's glad that you were able to say two full sentences without stammering or saying anything weird. </p><p>He really, really hopes you can keep it up for the rest of this interview.</p><p> </p><p><strong>KIM KITSURAGI</strong> - He leans against the hood of the car and gives you a small nod. </p><p>"Of course, officers. I'll do whatever I can to assist your investigation," he says.</p><p> </p><p><strong>COMPOSURE</strong> [Easy: Success] - He's making himself comfortable because he's expecting a long interview. </p><p><strong>ELECTROCHEMISTRY</strong> [Legendary: Success] - He's draped over the hood of that beautiful motor carriage, his shirt riding up to expose the flat plane of his abdomen, his gorgeous hands cupping your face as he moans against your mouth---</p><p> </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - <strong><em>Fucking hell, EC.</em></strong></p><p>You cough loudly into your fist and eject that scorching vision from your mind.</p><p>"Could you please tell us what you were doing last night, between 6 PM and midnight?" you quickly ask Kim, frantically praying that he doesn't notice the sudden flush on your face. </p><p> </p><p><strong>KIM KITSURAGI</strong> - “I was at home," he simply says.</p><p><strong>PERCEPTION</strong> [Medium: Success] - Thankfully, Kim doesn't seem to have noticed your...discomfort.</p><p><strong>JEAN VICQUEMARE</strong> - He arches an eyebrow. "Doing what, exactly?</p><p><strong>KIM KITSURAGI</strong> - Unfazed, he lists his activities by counting them off with the fingers of one hand. "I cooked dinner, ate it, then I went out for a smoke before taking a shower and going to bed."</p><p><b>DRAMA</b> [Impossible: Failure] - He seems to be telling the truth, sire.</p><p><strong>LOGIC</strong> - Sounds like a perfectly normal Sunday night.</p><p><em>Too</em> normal, in fact. </p><p> </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - “And where exactly do you live, Mr. Kitsuragi?” you ask, without any ulterior motive at all.</p><p><b>DRAMA </b>[Formidable: Success] - Indeed, my liege. You are definitely not asking that question in order to ascertain where you can visit this mysterious stranger later tonight, after you and Lt. Vicquemare call it a day...</p><p> </p><p><strong>KIM KITSURAGI</strong> - He turns around and points at the dilapidated apartment building behind the shed. “Right there, officers. Third floor, Unit 357,” he says.</p><p><b>RHETORIC</b> [Medium: Success] - His transparency conveys that he has absolutely nothing to hide from you.</p><p><b>YOU </b>- You take out your ledger and quickly write down his address.</p><p><strong>DRAMA</strong> - Congratulations, sire! I eagerly offer my assistance in composing the heartfelt monologue that you will use to serenade this gentleman tonight.</p><p><strong>CONCEPTUALIZATION</strong> - He is your rock, the safe harbor in which your heart can anchor itself amidst the tumultuous waves that toss you to and fro---</p><p><strong>ELECTROCHEMISTRY</strong> - That's all nice and romantic, but can you just skip all of that and---</p><p> </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - Shut the fuck up, EC. You've caused enough trouble for today.</p><p>"And did you happen to hear or see anything strange while you were having a smoke?" you ask Kim.</p><p><strong>KIM KITSURAGI</strong> - He nods. "I heard the sound of squealing tires, coming from the roundabout," he says, pointing to the southeast. "But I didn't think too much of it..."</p><p><strong>JEAN VICQUEMARE</strong> - "Oh? And why is that, Mr. Kitsuragi?" he asks.</p><p><strong>LOGIC</strong> - Just like Jean, you are also wondering why the stranger wouldn't be alarmed at such a sound in the middle of the night.</p><p><strong>KIM KITSURAGI</strong> - To his credit, Kim seems unfazed by Jean's question. "Well, Martinaise isn't exactly the most peaceful neighborhood," he says matter-of-factly. "The dockworkers usually have drunken brawls during the weekends, and the customers of that pinball arcade over there," he jerks his chin towards the building across the Whirling, "can get pretty out-of-hand too. I would've been more surprised if I <em>didn't</em> hear anything strange that night."</p><p><strong>LOGIC</strong> - That makes perfect sense. <em>Again</em>.</p><p> </p><p><strong>RHETORIC </strong>[Challenging: Success] - Judging from the venom in his tone when he said "pinball arcade", it sounded like he doesn't like pinball very much at all... </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - "Not a fan of pinball, Kim?" </p><p><strong>KIM KITSURAGI</strong> - His eyes widen in surprise.</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - ...Why is he looking at me like that?</p><p><strong>RHETORIC</strong> - It might be because you just called him by his first name.</p><p> </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - Oh.</p><p>Then, after a beat, it hits you.</p><p>SHIT SHIT SHIT I CALLED HIM "KIM" AGAIN WHY'D I DO THAT---</p><p><strong>COMPOSURE</strong> [Legendary: Success] - Despite the panicked uproar within your mind, you maintain a perfectly straight face as you wait for Kim's answer.</p><p><strong>KIM KITSURAGI</strong> - "I..." he says, before shuddering in revulsion. "I hate it."</p><p><strong>DRAMA</strong> [Trivial: Success] - No truer words have been said, sire. </p><p> </p><p><b>YOU</b>- "Oh?" you hear yourself say with a surprised tone. "And why is that?"</p><p><strong>LOGIC</strong> - You're veering off-topic. Is there a point to this line of questioning?</p><p><strong>PERCEPTION (SIGHT)</strong> [Medium: Success] - Based on the perplexed look that Jean is giving you, he's wondering about this seemingly pointless detour too.</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - I have <em>no</em> idea why I asked that, so we might as well ride it into the tequila sunset, gentlemen.</p><p> </p><p><strong>KIM KITSURAGI</strong> - He shrugs. "It's a childish game. It's bright, loud, and takes no skill whatsoever. It's also highly addictive, and Dolores knows that the people around here could be using their precious time and money for other things..."</p><p><strong>EMPATHY</strong> [Medium: Success] - He seems to genuinely care about the people in this neighborhood. I wonder how long he's been living here?</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - Excellent question, Em.</p><p>"I heartily agree with you, Kim---"</p><p><strong>REACTION SPEED</strong> - You just called him Kim again.</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - I already messed up, so I might as well be fucking consistent about it.</p><p>"--may I ask how long you've been in this neighborhood?" you continue.</p><p><strong>JEAN VICQUEMARE</strong> - He visibly relaxes beside you, as if reassured that you're finally back on track. </p><p> </p><p><strong>KIM KITSURAGI</strong> - "I moved here from Central Jamrock two years ago," he says. "My family has a small business here, so I'm helping them take care of it."</p><p><strong>DRAMA</strong> [Trivial: Success] - The truth, sire. </p><p><strong>JEAN VICQUEMARE</strong> - He jerks his chin at the car behind Kim. "An auto-repair business, I presume?"</p><p><strong>KIM KITSURAGI</strong> - He smiles and gently pats the hood of the car. "Something like that, yes," he says. </p><p> </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - Even as you scribble down his answer into your ledger, you frown and try to get a reading on Kim...</p><p>Rhetoric, got anything for me?</p><p><strong>RHETORIC</strong> [Impossible: Failure] - Negative. Everything that he's saying adds up, and he doesn't seem to have any hidden agenda. </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - Drama, what about you?</p><p><strong>DRAMA</strong> [Impossible: Failure] - He has been forthcoming with us thus far, sire. </p><p><strong>LOGIC</strong> - That's impossible. Everyone has something to hide, and this man shouldn't be an exception.</p><p>Press him further.</p><p> </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - "So, going back to what you heard last night, you mentioned that squealing tires are just a regular occurrence around here?" you ask him.</p><p><strong>KIM KITSURAGI</strong> - He nods wearily. "That and angry yelling, bottles shattering over people's skulls, overly enthusiastic moaning---"</p><p><strong>ELECTROCHEMISTRY</strong> - Speaking of moaning, can you imagine <em>wrecking</em> that calm facade of his with your tongue---</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - FOR THE LOVE OF GOD SOMEONE STOP HIM RIGHT NOW.</p><p><strong>VOLITION</strong> [Legendary: Success] - Done.</p><p> </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - Clearing your throat, you give him an uneasy smile. "Thank you, Mr. Kitsuragi. I think we got the picture."</p><p><strong>KIM KITSURAGI</strong> - He returns your smile with a small one of his own, and butterflies immediately flutter in your stomach. </p><p><b>AUTHORITY </b>[Legendary: Success] - Stop your disgraceful romanticizing and focus on the interrogation.</p><p><strong>ELECTROCHEMISTRY</strong> - Don't be such a killjoy, boss! It's been ages since we've gotten this worked up about someone, so we might as well enjoy it!</p><p> </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - "Jean, do you have any questions for Mr. Kitsuragi?" you ask.</p><p><strong>LOGIC</strong> - Yes, passing the ball to your partner because your own brain cells have been thoroughly fried by this stranger's smile is a sound strategy. Go you. </p><p><strong>JEAN VICQUEMARE</strong> - Thankfully, he picks up on your cue. "Would you remember what time you heard that noise?" he asks Kim.</p><p><strong>KIM KITSURAGI</strong> - He taps his chin thoughtfully. "I'm not sure...probably between 10 to 10:30 pm," he estimates. "I'm usually in bed by 11, so I definitely heard it before then."</p><p><strong>LOGIC </strong>[Medium: Success] - That fits comfortably into the timeline before the car crash, and before the victims were killed...</p><p><strong>JEAN VICQUEMARE</strong> - Jean nods. "Thank you. Now," he says, reaching into his coat pocket, "I'd like to show you a photograph of the vehicle that was involved in the accident. Please tell us if you've seen it before."</p><p>He takes out the photograph of the wrecked LUM Fevre and passes it to Kim.</p><p> </p><p><strong>KIM KITSURAGI</strong> - He takes the photo from Jean, and the moment he sees it, a pained wince crosses his face.</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - Your breath catches in your throat.</p><p>Please don't tell me he recognizes it.</p><p> </p><p><strong>COMPOSURE</strong> [Formidable: Success] - Relax. That looked more like a knee-jerk reaction at seeing such a beautiful car mangled into a piece of junk.</p><p><strong>KIM KITSURAGI</strong> - He clucks his tongue and shakes his head. "What a waste," he says quietly. </p><p><strong>RHETORIC</strong> [Easy: Success] - He's definitely talking about the car. </p><p><strong>EMPATHY</strong> [Medium: Success] - You suddenly get the impression that Kim loves motor carriages more than he loves people.</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - You desperately hope that you are more lovable than a car.</p><p> </p><p><strong>KIM KITSURAGI</strong> - "LUM Fevre '50, " he says, adjusting his glasses and peering at the photograph. "Air-cooled, rear-mounted twelve cylinder compression ignition engine driving the rear wheels through a four speed manual gearbox, capable of reaching a top speed of 180 kilometers per hour."</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - You blink in surprise, completely taken aback by the flood of information that he just unleashed.</p><p><strong>JEAN VICQUEMARE</strong> - The lieutenant looks just as shocked as you are.</p><p><strong>ELECTROCHEMISTRY</strong> - <em>Fuck</em>.</p><p>So he's not just unreasonably hot, he's also incredibly smart. </p><p>You don't stand a chance, buddy.</p><p> </p><p><strong>KIM KITSURAGI</strong> - Oblivious to your surprise (and muted arousal), he continues. "The back carriage is badly dented. Did it hit something, officers?" he asks, looking up from the photo.</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - "Uh. Yes, actually. It swiped against a tree," you say, still in awe at his competence. </p><p><strong>KIM KITSURAGI -</strong> He nods, as if your answer just confirmed his suspicions. "Whoever did this deserves to rot in jail for the rest of their godforsaken lives," he says with quiet venom. </p><p><strong>EMPATHY</strong> [Legendary: Success] - <em>I would never have treated you like that</em>, he seems to be telling the wrecked MC in the photo. </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - You never thought that you would ever feel envious of an inanimate object, but here you are. Feeling envious. Of a wrecked car.</p><p> </p><p><strong>JEAN VICQUEMARE</strong> - "I'm assuming that this is your first time seeing that vehicle then?" Jean asks, gently taking the photo from Kim and snapping you out of your petty jealousy.</p><p><strong>KIM KITSURAGI</strong> - He nods. "I'd definitely remember a machine like that, especially if it showed up in this neighborhood," he says, gesturing at the depressing squalor that surrounds you. </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - Frowning, you try to make sense of the implications of Kim's statement.</p><p>So...the car didn't make a stop here, but only passed through the roundabout before heading into the village?</p><p><strong>LOGIC</strong> [Medium: Success] - If what he's saying is true, then yes, that seems to be the most reasonable conclusion.</p><p><strong>DRAMA</strong> [Impossible: Failure] - There is no doubt that the esteemed gentleman is telling the truth, sire.</p><p><strong>INTERFACING</strong> [Easy: Success] - His impressive knowledge about motor carriages definitely lends his statement some credibility.</p><p> </p><p><strong>KIM KITSURAGI</strong> - "If I may ask, officers... Did anyone get hurt in the accident?" he asks with a frown.</p><p><strong>EMPATHY</strong> [Easy: Success] - Again, that look of genuine concern, but this time directed at people whom he has never met before...</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - You give him a grim nod. "There were two people in the motor carriage when it crashed into the sea, Mr. Kitsuragi. Unfortunately, both of them died from the impact," you say. </p><p><strong>DRAMA</strong> [Medium: Success] - That is not entirely true, but the mechanic does not have to know about the grisly results of those autopsies.</p><p> </p><p><strong>KIM KITSURAGI</strong> - His face falls. "I see," he says quietly. "I'm sorry to hear that."</p><p><strong>DRAMA</strong> [Impossible: Failure] - His grief is muted, but genuine, sire.</p><p><strong>EMPATHY</strong> [Easy: Success] - He hates the driver for wrecking the car, but he doesn't think that anyone--car murderer or not--- deserves to die that way.</p><p><strong>VOLITION</strong> [Legendary: Success] - You resist the powerful urge to place a comforting hand on his shoulder.</p><p> </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - "It's certainly a tragedy," you say somberly. "Detective Vicquemare and I are just covering all of the bases to make sure that we have the complete story of what exactly happened."</p><p><strong>KIM KITSURAGI</strong> - He nods. "I understand, Officers. If there's any way that I can help with your investigation, please let me know and I'll do my best to help."</p><p><strong>DRAMA</strong> [Impossible: Failure] - He is sincere in his desire to be of assistance to you, my liege.</p><p><strong>JEAN VICQUEMARE</strong> - "Thank you, Mr. Kitsuragi," he says. "We appreciate your cooperation very much."</p><p>Then, he gives you a meaningful look.</p><p><strong>EMPATHY</strong> [Easy: Success] - <em>"Anything else that you want to ask this guy?"</em> the lieutenant is asking silently. </p><p> </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - Suddenly, you're hit by the stunning realization that if you don't have any more questions, then...</p><p><strong>PAIN THRESHOLD</strong> [Godly: Failure] - Then you'll have to leave Kim. You'll have to physically walk away from him and every single step will inflict a small, burning cut on the surface of your yearning heart.</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - Someone. Anyone.</p><p>Give me a question.</p><p>Any question. </p><p><em>Please</em>.</p><p> </p><p><strong>ELECTROCHEMISTRY</strong> - "Can I take you out to dinner tonight---"</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - <strong>NO.</strong></p><p>No questions from you. </p><p> </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - Then, all of a sudden, your eyes land on his temple.</p><p><strong>PERCEPTION (SIGHT)</strong> [Formidable: Success] - Wait. That isn't a smudge of dirt or oil.</p><p>It looks more like a---</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - "Kim," you ask with a frown. "What happened to your head?"</p><p><strong>KIM KITSURAGI</strong> - He blinks. </p><p>"Pardon?" </p><p> </p><p><strong>VOLITION</strong> [Impossible: Failure] - And before you can stop yourself, you're already crossing the small distance in front of you and reaching out to him---</p><p><strong>KIM KITSURAGI</strong> - But his hand shoots out and catches your wrist before your fingers can touch his face.</p><p><strong>PAIN THRESHOLD </strong>[Godly: Failure] - His grip is strong. <em>Very</em> strong. So much so that you can feel the bones of your wrist rubbing against each other... </p><p><strong>KIM KITSURAGI</strong> - "Officer," he says, in a low, quiet voice. "What are you doing?"</p><p> </p><p><strong>HALF-LIGHT</strong> [Trivial: Success] - <strong><em>Danger</em></strong></p><p><em> <strong>Get away from him</strong> </em> <em>  </em></p><p>
  <em> <strong>NOW</strong> </em>
</p><p> </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - Suddenly coming to your senses, you jerk your hand away from his iron grip and take a surprised step back.</p><p>"I---I'm sorry," you stammer out. "I don't know what came over me..."</p><p>Fuck. </p><p>Fuck.</p><p>Fuck.</p><p>What's wrong with me today?</p><p> </p><p><strong>KIM KITSURAGI</strong> - He's still looking at you warily, but he doesn't seem to be too bothered by what you just did.</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - Before you can apologize to him again, a strong hand lands on your shoulder.</p><p><strong>JEAN VICQUEMARE</strong> - "I apologize for my colleague's...strange behavior, Mr. Kitsuragi," Jean says in a polite, yet strained voice. "He was very shaken by what we saw this morning, so he's still a bit...out of it."</p><p><strong>PAIN THRESHOLD</strong> [Godly: Failure] - Jean's grip on your shoulder is just as strong and painful as Kim's grip on your wrist.</p><p><strong>COMPOSURE</strong> [Medium: Success] - The lieutenant is desperately trying to keep it together for the both of you.</p><p><strong>EMPATHY</strong> [Easy: Success] - He's also fully convinced that you're not in a state to continue this interview, so he's going to put an end to this madness <em>right now</em>. </p><p> </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - NO! I---</p><p><strong>JEAN VICQUEMARE</strong> - "Thank you again for your time. We'll take our leave now," Jean says, firmly steering you back towards the gate.</p><p>"Don't you <em>dare</em> think of trying anything funny, shitkid," he whispers harshly under his breath.</p><p><strong>AUTHORITY</strong> - The lieutenant is overstepping his bounds! He can't just drag you out of here against your will---</p><p><strong>VOLITION</strong> [Impossible: Failure] - No. </p><p>Let him.</p><p>You've done enough damage for today.</p><p> </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - Before Jean shoves you out of the gate, you throw one last look over your shoulder.</p><p><strong>KIM KITSURAGI</strong> - He's watching you with a perplexed frown on his face, as if he's trying, but failing, to figure you out. </p><p>Then, he reaches up and gingerly touches---</p><p><strong>PERCEPTION (SIGHT)</strong> [Legendary: Success] - The small bruise on his temple. </p><p> </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - Then, you lose sight of him as Jean closes the gate behind the two of you.</p><p><strong>JEAN VICQUEMARE</strong> - "What the <em>holy fuck</em> was that about, Harry," he growls out between gritted teeth. </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - You stare at him helplessly. </p><p>"I...I'm sorry, Jean."</p><p> </p><p><strong>JEAN VICQUEMARE</strong> - "You've been acting crazy this whole morning," he continues, "First, you stare off into space, then you start seeing things--" he slams his palm against the still-unsmashed fence behind him for emphasis. "--and now you almost groped a fucking civilian. I mean---What the holy fuck?!" he says, throwing his hands up in the air in perplexed frustration. </p><p><strong>EMPATHY</strong> [Easy: Success] - He's angry. He's worried. He's afraid.</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - "Jean," you say, frantically trying to calm him down. "I..."</p><p> </p><p><strong>PAIN THRESHOLD</strong> [Godly: Failure] - The realization that you've alienated both Kim and Jean splashes over you like a freezing bucket of water.</p><p><strong>PERCEPTION </strong>[Legendary: Success] - There was no hint of recognition in Kim's eyes. You were a stranger to him. And in that terrible moment when you reached out to him, he saw you as---</p><p><strong>HALF-LIGHT</strong> [Easy: Success] - A stranger.</p><p>A threat.  </p><p>An enemy.</p><p> </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - "I...I don't know what's happening to me," you stammer. "It's just---I've---"</p><p><strong>COMPOSURE</strong> [Godly: Failure] - And suddenly, to your horror, your voice begins to break.</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - "I just wanted to---"</p><p><strong>ELECTROCHEMISTRY</strong> - To touch him.</p><p><strong>EMPATHY</strong> - To see if he was alright.</p><p><strong>INLAND EMPIRE</strong> - To convince yourself that he was real.</p><p> </p><p><strong>COMPOSURE</strong> Godly: Failure] - Utterly disoriented, you bury your face in your hands, and you're mortified to discover that they're trembling---</p><p> </p><p><strong>JEAN VICQUEMARE</strong> - "Fuck. Harry. Harry!"</p><p>Then, his hands are on your shoulders again, but this time, their grip isn't painful at all. </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - You take several deep breaths and desperately try to pull yourself together.</p><p> </p><p><strong>JEAN VICQUEMARE</strong> - "...Fuck," he says one last time, in a weary, worried voice. "I'm...I'm sorry for snapping at you like that," he says quietly. "I was just...worried---really <em>fucking</em> worried---about you."</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - When you finally peel your shaking hands away from your face, you look up and see the frantic concern in Jean's eyes.</p><p> </p><p><strong>JEAN VICQUEMARE</strong> - He sighs and lets go of your shoulders. </p><p>"...We both need to calm the fuck down, huh," he mutters.</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - Despite your frazzled state, you manage to release a choked laugh. </p><p>"Yeah," you say hoarsely. "Yeah, we do."</p><p> </p><p><strong>JEAN VICQUEMARE</strong> - He jerks a thumb at the Whirling. "Let's go inside and check in early. What do you say?"</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - You nod and sigh in relief. "Sounds good."</p><p><strong>COMPOSURE</strong> [Legendary: Success] - But before he walks away, you take a deep breath to gather your wits, before looking directly at the lieutenant. </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - "Thank you, Jean," you tell him quietly. "And... I'm sorry. For what happened back there."</p><p> </p><p><strong>JEAN VICQUEMARE</strong> - He gives you a weary, but sincere smile. </p><p>"Don't mention it, Mullen. Now get your ass moving or I'll drag you inside myself."</p><p> </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - You obediently start walking towards the Whirling, but every step that you take away from that fence, away from that shed, away from the bruised, competent man who's been haunting your waking dreams since this morning---</p><p><strong>PAIN THRESHOLD</strong> [Godly: Failure] - ---inflicts a small, burning cut on the surface of your yearning heart.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Later that afternoon, Kim gives the newly repaired motor carriage one last look-over before giving it a fond pat on the hood.</p><p>"Good as new," he says, and he imagines that he could feel the happy purr of the engine under his palm.</p><p>Satisfied with a good day's work, he packs away his tools, washes up, and puts on his jacket.</p><p> </p><p>Then, he looks up at the second floor of the Whirling to check if anyone's looking through the windows.</p><p>He checks the balcony for good measure.</p><p> </p><p>After making sure that no one's watching, Kim walks out of the backyard and locks the gate behind him...</p><p>Then, Ace strides into the pinball arcade. </p><p> </p><p>As always, the noise inside is incredible. The crash and bang of machines being manhandled by overly enthusiastic patrons, the loud, carnival-like music blaring through the speakers, the excited shouts and obscene trash-talk of teenagers who are viciously competing each other to beat their high scores---</p><p>Ace successfully stifles the shudder of revulsion that threatens to course through him. </p><p> </p><p>Suddenly, his mind travels back to his encounter with those two detectives earlier this morning...</p><p><em>At the very least, I told them one thing that's true</em>, he thinks to himself. </p><p>
  <em>I really do hate pinball. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>His thoughts are interrupted by a cheerful voice. </p><p>"Mr. Ace!" the manager, Siileng, exclaims, rushing out of the maze of machines to greet him with open arms and a wide grin. "What brings you here today?"</p><p>When Ace first arrived in Martinaise to set up shop, the first thing that he did was to look for someone competent, but wily, enough to put in charge of the place. It was either that, or manage the arcade himself, which he was absolutely <em>not</em> willing to do even under the pain of death. Siileng had been the perfect candidate, with his greedy, entrepreneurial mindset and his permanently affable demeanor. </p><p>It's just that Ace wishes that the man would stop trying to hug him whenever they saw each other.</p><p> </p><p>"Siileng," he says, deftly evading the bear hug that Siileng threatens to give him. "Are the Hardies here already?"</p><p>Siileng nods, and the glittering lights of the arcade reflect wildly off his sunglasses. "They're waiting for you in the attic, as usual. I'll send up some dinner and refreshments for all of you in a bit!"</p><p>He gives Siileng a grateful nod and starts heading for the stairs---</p><p>"Oh, by the way!" Siileng runs after him and stands in his way. "Plaisance's lil' girl is asking when you can play that Susu...Suzo...Suze... complicated board game with her again."</p><p> </p><p>Despite his weariness, Ace feels a smile tug at the corners of his lips.</p><p>"Tell her that I'll be there in half an hour," he says. "And that she'd better get ready to get thrashed."</p><p>Siileng shoots finger guns at him and lets him pass. </p><p> </p><p>Ace weaves his way through the labyrinth of lights, noise, and machinery and goes up the staircase. </p><p>When he reaches the door to the top floor, he gives it a quick rap, which he follows up with a solid knock that resounds on the door.</p><p>"Password?" a gruff voice asks from behind the door.</p><p>"Open this door or you're fired, Alain," he says.</p><p> </p><p>The door opens like magic, and he steps in.</p><p>"Sorry, Ace, didn't know it was you," Alain says from his post behind the door.</p><p>"Who else would it be, you idiot? He used his signature knock and all," Eugene says from the table where he's playing cards with Theo, Fat Angus, and Shanky. </p><p> </p><p>Upon seeing Ace, Titus straightens up from the wall that he was leaning against. "Gather around boys, meeting's about to start," he tells everyone else.</p><p>As the Hardie Boys settle into their respective places, Ace surveys the group. </p><p> </p><p>"Where's Glen?" he asks, turning the chair in the middle of the room and straddling it.</p><p>Titus shrugs. "Said he had some business to finish at the docks. Seemed to be in a bad mood, so I didn't press him too much."</p><p>Ace jots down this interesting piece of information in his mental notebook and decides that he will have to talk to Glen soon. </p><p>Very soon.</p><p> </p><p>"Here, Ace," Titus says, offering him an open pack of cigarettes.</p><p>With a quiet word of thanks, Ace takes a stick, places it between his lips, and leans in towards the lighter that Titus flicks open for him.</p><p>He puffs on it languorously for a few moments, aware of the six pairs of eyes that are looking at him with nervous anticipation.</p><p> </p><p>Then, he exhales a long plume of smoke.</p><p>"The detectives talked to me today," he says.</p><p>Titus visibly tenses up. Shanky and Alain curse under their breaths. Sweat stains start to appear on Fat Angus' armpits. Eugene and Theo's faces remain calm and impassive. </p><p>"And what did you tell them?" Titus warily asks him.</p><p> </p><p>"The spiel that we talked about," Ace says, tapping some ash off his cigarette. "I was at my apartment, heard the tires squealing at around 10:30, never saw the car before, etcetera etcetera."</p><p>"And did the pigs believe you?" Shanky asks, his high-pitched voice grating on Ace's ears like the squeak of a rat. </p><p>"They did," he says confidently. "But it looks like they'll be more troublesome than we expected."</p><p>"Whaddya mean?" Alain says nervously.</p><p>Ace takes a pull of his cigarette before responding. "They sent over the Human Can Opener," he says simply.</p><p> </p><p>Everyone at the table frowns at him in confusion.</p><p>"Human Can Opener? You mean the guy in black?" Titus asks.</p><p>Ace shakes his head. "No, the other one in the green blazer. The one with the mutton chops."</p><p><em>The one who almost touched you on the cheek,</em> his traitorous mind reminds him. </p><p> </p><p>Titus frowns. "We bumped into those two this morning, and that guy looked like any other pig."</p><p>"No," Ace says. "He's not like any other pig. He's a bigshot detective from Precinct 41 who's solved 216 cases in his entire career, and he's notorious for cracking the toughest criminals wide open and getting the real story out of them. He can't be bribed, he can't be threatened, and he won't stop until he's solved this case."</p><p>An alarmed silence descends on the group.</p><p>Then, Theo speaks up.</p><p>"Has your family dealt with him before?" he asks.</p><p>All eyes in the room move back to Ace.</p><p> </p><p>He nods. "My father's told me that he's tried to cause some trouble for our drug operations, but my siblings managed to shake that guy off their trail."</p><p>"So can they do that again?" Shanky says, before his brain catches up with him.</p><p>Ace gives him a look so cold that Shanky visibly shrinks into himself. </p><p> </p><p>"I'll deal with that detective myself," Ace says, his eyes still trained on Shanky's shivering form. </p><p>Alain shakes his head in mock pity. "I feel sorry for that guy already," he mutters.</p><p>"So what do you want us to do?" Titus asks. </p><p>"Act normal," Ace tells him, sweeping his gaze across the group. "Do what you've been doing for the past two years. Work at the docks. Drink at the Whirling. Keep the peace in Martinaise. And when the detectives talk to you, just deliver the statements that you prepared."</p><p> </p><p>Everyone nods. </p><p>"Good," Ace says, stubbing his cigarette out at the sole of his boot. "Siileng's sending up some food and drinks up for you guys, so you can hang out here some more."</p><p>He stands up from his chair and gives everyone a grateful nod. "Thank you for your time, gentlemen. I'll call for another meeting if needed, but I'll try not to do that as long as those detectives are around."</p><p> </p><p>He’s just about to walk towards the door when he suddenly remembers something.</p><p>"Oh, and by the way," he says, looking back at the Hardie Boys. "If you see me around, and the detectives are there, call me Kim, not Ace."</p><p> </p><p>"Got it, A---I mean, Kim," Alain says. </p><p>And with that, Kim leaves the room, goes to the bookkeeper's office on the second floor, and promptly gets hugged by an excited schoolgirl who's been waiting to play a board game with him. </p><p> </p><p></p><div class="center">
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  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>A warm thanks to everyone who's reading this baby monster! It'll be a long and wild ride, but your Kudos and comments (and the <a href="https://discoelysium.gamepedia.com/">DE Wiki</a>) are the energy bars that keep me fueled up for this marathon. So truly, thank you!</p>
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<a name="section0006"><h2>6. The Fuck-All Express</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Back so soon, officers?” Garte asks as Jean and Harry trudge towards the Whirling’s bar. The cafeteria’s slightly more occupied now than when they'd left, and the air is filled with the smell of coffee and the muted chatter of customers.  </p><p>Jean gives him an apologetic smirk. “Yeah, turns out we’re more tired than we thought, Mr. Garte,” he says, while giving Harry a sidelong look. His partner definitely looks better now---He’s giving Garte a sheepish smile of his own, and the color’s returned to his cheeks, though his eyes still have that pained, weary look in them…</p><p> </p><p>Jean’s absolutely dying to get to the bottom of Harry’s bizarre episodes, but he’s also wary of pushing the other man to share too much, too soon. They’re both baffled and anxious enough as it is, and Jean knows that Harry would appreciate having some time and space to figure out what’s been going on in that crazy brain of his.</p><p>“Listen, would it be okay if we checked into our rooms right now?” Jean asks. “We’d like to take a breather and get our bearings for a while.”</p><p>Garte nods. “Of course. Each room will be 20 réal per night…”</p><p> </p><p>As Jean settles the matter of their rooms with Garte, he notices Harry looking around the lobby like a curious child. As Harry’s gaze sweeps across the room, his eyes suddenly halt at the wall between the bar and the kitchen…</p><p>“Is that a Great Skua, Garte?” Harry asks, tilting his chin towards the wall.</p><p>Garte’s eyebrows shoot up. “Why yes, Detective, that is indeed a Great Skua. It’s a personal favorite of mine. I stuffed it myself, you see,” he says, puffing out his chest like a proud schoolboy. </p><p>Harry nods absently. “Better be careful with it. Some crazy drunk might swipe it off the wall and break it or something.”</p><p> </p><p>Garte blinks at Harry.</p><p>Jean blinks at Harry.</p><p>Harry just sighs and looks around the room again, seemingly unaware of their confusion.</p><p> </p><p>“Is he...is he alright, Officer?” Garte whispers to Jean.</p><p>“Uh. He’s...he’s a bit out-of-it today,” Jean whispers back. “But he should be okay after a quick nap.”</p><p><em> I hope </em>, Jean adds silently. </p><p> </p><p>Still looking warily at Harry, Garte hands over two keys to Jean. “Here you go, Detective. I hope you and your partner find the rooms adequate for your needs,” he says. </p><p>“Thanks, Mr. Garte. I’m sure they will be,” Jean says.</p><p> </p><p>As he and Harry walk towards the stairs, Jean spots Garte sidling up to the Great Skua on the wall and surreptitiously taking it down. </p><p> </p><p>“So," Jean says when they get to the second floor. "Which room do you want?” </p><p>Harry hums thoughtfully. “Why don’t we take a look inside first? Then you can get the one with the ax-murderer in the closet..."</p><p>"And you can get the one with the cockroaches on the mattress," Jean retorts. Fishing out the key for the middle room, he opens the door, which reveals a small, surprisingly decent room with a clean-looking bed, a bedside cabinet, a bookshelf, and a writing desk. </p><p>"Huh," Harry says, peering into the room. "Looks pretty cozy. Cabinet's too small for an ax-murderer to hide in too."</p><p>"And there don't seem to be roaches on the bed, so it's already leagues better than that last hostel that we had to stay in," Jean mutters.</p><p> </p><p>Harry shudders, and Jean's pretty sure his partner's having flashbacks of the grimy motel that they used as their base of operations during their last case. It had been a cramped, mildew-stained shoebox that somehow managed to accommodate two beds, but Jean still has nightmares about the sight that greeted him when he first opened the bathroom lights---</p><p>Stifling a shudder of his own, Jean takes out the key to the second room and opens the door.</p><p>His jaw drops.</p><p> </p><p>This room is much bigger than the first. The entire left wall is covered in glass windows that overlook the square in front of the Whirling, and the opened curtains allow a muted flood of natural sunlight into the room. There's a cozy-looking sofa bed against the far wall, a couple of lounge chairs beside the windows, and a speckled rug on the floor. It looks clean, comfortable, and very, very much worth the 20 réal that they forked over for it.</p><p>Jean's eyes land on the music player on top of the small table across from the door.</p><p>"Hey, Harry," he says, turning towards his partner, "You can play your tapes---"</p><p>Then, he sees Harry's face.</p><p> </p><p>Several seconds pass.</p><p>Neither of them speak.</p><p>Then, very, <em> very </em> slowly, Jean closes the door to the room.</p><p> </p><p>"...So," he says, after several more seconds of tense silence. "I guess I'm taking this room then."</p><p>Beside him, Harry nods mutely, his face still frozen in a mask of absolute terror.</p><p> </p><p>Wincing, Jean steers Harry back to the middle room and opens the door for him. </p><p>Then, he shuffles his feet uncertainly.</p><p>"Do you. Uh. Do you want to...talk about it?" Jean asks his partner. </p><p>Harry shakes his head.</p><p> </p><p>And even if Jean desperately, <em> desperately </em> wants to find out what spooked Harry so badly in that room, he's not heartless enough to force his partner to talk about it right now.</p><p>Swallowing down his overwhelming anxiety and worry, Jean nods and gives Harry one last look.</p><p>"Okay. I'll...just let you rest then," he says. </p><p>He's about to turn away and go to his room, when all of a sudden---</p><p> </p><p>Harry's hand shoots out and grips his arm.</p><p>His partner's fingers are cold and clammy, and they're gripping Jean's arm so tightly that he stifles a wince.</p><p> </p><p>"Jean," Harry says quietly, his eyes wide and so, so afraid. "Can you...Can you stay here with me? Just for a while?"</p><p>Jean stares at him.</p><p> </p><p>Harry squeezes his arm. </p><p>"Please," Harry whispers.</p><p>And how, pray tell, can Jean say no to that?</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Sighing, Jean slumps back in his chair and looks over at the bed, where Harry's managed to fall asleep a few minutes ago.</p><p>In the dim light of the room, he can just barely make out the look of utter exhaustion on his partner's face, as if Harry'd just spent an entire day, and not just three fucking hours, investigating this case...</p><p><em> What the fuck is going on? </em> Jean silently asks himself, fear and worry gnawing at his gut. </p><p> </p><p>In the past four years, he's seen many sides of Harry. He's seen Harry beam victoriously after solving a cold case that stumped generations of detectives before him. He's seen Harry punch through a wall out of rage, after a suspect was allowed to walk free after a rigged trial. He's seen Harry weep after hearing the toneless testimony of a little child who was forced to do unspeakable things by her parents.</p><p>He's seen Harry happy, sad, angry, worried, embarrassed, excited, confident, nervous---</p><p> </p><p>But in those past four years, Jean has never, ever seen Harry this...uncertain.</p><p>This afraid.</p><p>And that absolutely fucking terrifies him.</p><p> </p><p>Suddenly feeling an intense craving for another cigarette, Jean drums his fingers nervously against his thigh and lets his gaze wander around the room. The only light source in the room is the lamp between Jean and the bookshelf, and next to the lamp, there's...</p><p>Jean's fingers stop.</p><p>His brows furrow.</p><p>He chews the inside of his cheek.</p><p>Then, he comes to a decision.</p><p> </p><p>He quietly turns his chair to the right...</p><p>And picks up the telephone.</p><p> </p><p>He dials a familiar number.</p><p>He waits.</p><p>Someone picks up after three rings.</p><p> </p><p>"Hello, Heidelstam residence!" a cheerful voice on the other end of the line chirps. "How may I help you on this fine morning?"</p><p>At the sound of that voice, Jean feels some of the tension in his body disappear.</p><p>"Hey, Trant," he says into the receiver, careful to keep his voice quiet so that he wouldn't wake Harry up.</p><p> </p><p>"...Jean? Jean, is that you?"</p><p>"Yeah, it's me," Jean says. "Is now a good time? I can call later, if---"</p><p>"No, no!" Trant quickly says. "I'm free right now! Mikael's at school already, so it's just me---Aren't you supposed to be with Harry?"</p><p> </p><p>Jean glances over at his partner's softly snoring form.</p><p>"Yeah, he's here. But he's asleep," he says. </p><p>"I see," Trant says. Then, his voice becomes quiet, gentle even. "...Did something happen, Jean?"</p><p> </p><p>Jean bites his cheek again, mulling over how much to tell Trant, or even what the hell he was supposed to say.</p><p>"It's...It's Harry," he finally says. "He's been acting strange this whole morning, and I was wondering if you can help me make sense of it."</p><p>Jean can practically see Trant nodding earnestly at the other end of the line. "Of course, I'll try to help as best as I can. What's been happening to him?"</p><p> </p><p>Jean gives Trant a quick summary of the morning's events: the car crash, the autopsies, the interview with that mechanic. And he also gives Trant a list of the strange things that Harry's done during those events: staring off into space, seeing things that aren't there, knowing someone's name without ever having met them...</p><p>"I have no fucking clue what's going on, Trant," Jean confesses, cradling his forehead in one hand while holding the receiver against his ear with the other. "It's the first time that I've seen him like this, and...and I have no fucking clue how to help him---"</p><p>"Jean," Trant interrupts him gently, and Jean can just imagine him sitting a few feet away, his face worried but compassionate. "The mere fact that you're there right now is already helping him, I'm sure. Can you imagine what would have happened if he were alone?"</p><p> </p><p>Jean tries, and the thought is so frightening that his mind recoils from it in horror. </p><p>"It sounds like his...voices are acting up," Trant continues. "They must be interfering with his capacity to perform optimally in this case."</p><p>Jean nods, before he realizes that Trant can't see him. "Yeah. That sounds possible. But they usually<em> help </em> him during investigations. He's got a pretty good handle on them most of the time..."</p><p> </p><p>"That's true," Trant admits. "But you mentioned that Harry encountered some difficulty...interviewing that woman," and Jean can see Trant frowning at the thought of Harry talking to a corpse, "Maybe the stress of that just carried over to his interview with the mechanic?"</p><p>"Maybe," Jean says with a frown. "But there was something about that mechanic too. I can't put a finger on what it was, exactly, but he seemed..."</p><p>"Suspicious? Nefarious? Saturated with criminal intent?" </p><p>Jean rolls his eyes, but he can't help but smile at Trant's verbosity. "No, he seemed...important. Mysterious. As if there was more to him than meets the eye."</p><p>Trant mulls over this for a moment. "That man sounds like someone against whom Harry would be particularly effective... That is, if the lieutenant double-yefreitor was in tip-top shape."</p><p>"I agree," Jean says. "But even if he weren't in tip-top shape, I'm pretty sure Harry's going to try talking to that guy again anyway," he says, remembering the stricken look on Harry's face when he saw the mechanic for the first time.</p><p> </p><p>"Do you think Harry might be infatuated with this man?" Trant says, and his tone is so wholesome and straightforward that Jean's jaw drops in disbelief.</p><p>"What????" he almost yells. Then, catching himself, he quickly lowers his voice again. "What? No! That's ridiculous! Harry just met him today, and besides, I'm pretty sure that Harry's not into---"</p><p> </p><p>"Jean," Trant says with infinite patience. "Harry's a virile, healthy, middle-aged male who hasn't been in a single romantic relationship for the past six years after his break-up with Dora," and Jean winces at the sound of <em> her </em> name, "and need I remind you that anyone can discover a new side to their sexuality as they advance in age and maturity?"</p><p><em> After all, that's what happened to you and me </em>, Jean can almost imagine Trant saying, and he's horrified to discover that his face is burning up like a small sun.</p><p> </p><p>"I...Khm," Jean says, still flustered by the implications behind Trant's last question. "Well, even if Harry has a crush on the guy, that wouldn't explain why he's been acting so strange this morning."</p><p>Trant hums thoughtfully. "But at least Harry's sleeping right now," he eventually says. "That should clear his mind a bit. And I'm sure that he'll do one of his little voice conferences when he wakes up too, given how troublesome they've been for him this morning."</p><p> </p><p>Jean finds himself agreeing with Trant's prediction. During particularly difficult cases, Harry had the habit of spending a few hours by himself, and when asked about what he was up to, he'd just grin and say that he was having a conference with the voices in his head.</p><p>At first, Jean thought that Harry was just---you know, <em> insane </em>. But as time went on, he witnessed first-hand how his partner emerged from those conferences with renewed vigor and astounding insight, which eventually convinced Jean that these voice conferences were actually effective, albeit eccentric, means of moving an investigation forward.</p><p> </p><p>"So I'll just give him some alone-time when he wakes up," Jean says, "That way, he can gather his thoughts. Literally, I mean."</p><p>"Yes, that would be ideal," Trant says. "And it'll give you the time to rest too, Detective Vicquemare," he adds, in a voice that reminds Jean of a freshly baked apple pie on his desk after a long day at work. </p><p> </p><p>"Hmph," he says, ignoring the warm flush that creeps up his cheeks at that memory. "I'll be able to rest when Harry gets his shit together."</p><p>Trant sighs over the phone, and Jean can almost see the other man rolling his eyes at Jean's stubbornness. "Don't make me go over there and tuck you into bed, Lieutenant," he says, and the smile in his voice is loud and clear even through the static on the line.</p><p>"Why, Civilian Officer," Jean says, with a grin of his own, "what makes you think that wasn't my intention all along?"</p><p>Trant actually laughs at that, and Jean feels all of the remaining tension in his body instantly disappear.</p><p> </p><p>"I'll do it, you know?" Trant says, his voice suddenly becoming low and serious. "I'll head over there right now, if you need me to."</p><p>And Jean is tempted---so, so tempted---to say, "Yes, please come over. I want to see you."</p><p>But he doesn't. </p><p>Instead, he says, "It's okay, Trant. I'm not some damsel in distress who needs a handsome knight to come and save the day."</p><p>And dammit, Jean absolutely hates how he could be such an emotionally constipated bastard sometimes.</p><p> </p><p></p><div class="center">
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</div><p> </p><p>Trant chuckles. "Alright, alright. But call me up if something else happens, okay? Or if you just need to talk. I'll be working at home the whole day today, so--"</p><p>Jean grins. "I leave the precinct for one fucking day and you're slacking off at home already," he says with mock dismay.</p><p>"What can I say? You've spoiled me for life. I just can't work productively without you constantly glaring at the back of my head anymore," Trant responds smoothly, and it's Jean's turn to chuckle at that.  </p><p> </p><p>They stay silent for a few moments.</p><p>"Thanks, Trant," Jean eventually says. "I...I really needed to talk to you."</p><p>"You're welcome," and Jean can see the smile on Trant's face so clearly that it makes his heart ache. "I'm just a phone call away."</p><p> </p><p>Then, Trant pauses.</p><p>And Jean realizes that he knows what the other man is thinking of saying.</p><p>But Jean also knows that he wouldn't be able to bear it if Trant says those words to him right now. </p><p> </p><p>"Take care of yourself, Lieutenant," Trant eventually says, and Jean feels both disappointed and relieved by those words.</p><p>"Thanks, Trant. Take care of yourself too."</p><p>Then, a few seconds tick by.</p><p>And a few more.</p><p> </p><p>"...Jean, do you want to put down the phone first?"</p><p>"No. You do it," Jean says.</p><p>Trant chuckles again, and Jean feels his cold, dark heart melt a bit more at that sound.</p><p> </p><p>"Okay, we'll do it together at the count of three. One..."</p><p>"Two..." Jean says.</p><p>"Three!"</p><p> </p><p>Jean doesn't put down the phone. </p><p>...And apparently, neither does Trant.</p><p> </p><p>"Put down the fucking phone already, Heidelstam," Jean finally says without any venom.</p><p>"Roger that, Lieutenant," Trant says fondly.</p><p>And that's the only time that Jean puts down the receiver. </p><p> </p><p>It takes him a few moments to realize that he still has a stupid smile on his face.</p><p>"Fuck," he mutters to himself. "You've got it bad, Vicquemare."</p><p> </p><p>But Jean realizes that he doesn't mind having it bad.</p><p>He doesn't mind at all. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><b>LIMBIC SYSTEM</b> - As your consciousness descends into the dark abyss of oblivion, a wall of sound surges up to meet you---the howling rush of wind outside the window, the clack of metal against metal, the creak and shudder of wooden panels, and beneath it all, an ever-present, rhythmic, echoing rumble...</p><p><b>ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN</b> - Welcome aboard, Harry-boy. </p><p> </p><p><b>YOU</b> - Wait. Am I on a...train?</p><p> </p><p><b>ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN</b> - Give this big boy a prize! That's right, brother-man. We're on the one-way train to the hottest destination in town, and you're on the first-class carriage. </p><p>Welcome...</p><p>To the Fuck-All Express. </p><p> </p><p><b>PERCEPTION</b> [Medium: Success] - As your eyes adjust to the darkness, you realize that you're sitting on the edge of your hostel bed. The room's proportions have changed since you last saw it---It seems narrower and longer, as if a pair of giant hands compressed the entire room into a thin box. The walls shudder and shake, and the floor vibrates under your feet and you have the uncanny sensation of being propelled towards an unknown destination...</p><p>Lt. Vicquemare sits a few feet away from you, slumped over the writing desk with his head pillowed in his arms. He seems to be fast asleep, and the expression on his face is oddly peaceful and content, as if he were dreaming of a kindly face with a bright and earnest smile.</p><p> </p><p><b>YOU</b> - Why am I dreaming of being on a train?</p><p><b>ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN</b> - Because you <em> are </em> in one, Harry. You booked your spot when you took that call. You bought your ticket when you bought those two cups of coffee. You boarded the train when you got out of your car and walked towards those two dead bodies.</p><p>You've been on this train the whole damn morning, and you sure as hell ain't getting off at the next stop.</p><p> </p><p><b>LIMBIC SYSTEM</b> - Suddenly, a cold blast of wind hits you like a frigid sea-wave. You turn around, only to see that the window beside your bed is gaping wide open, a hungry, cavernous mouth that beckons you to peer into the darkness that swiftly rushes past your carriage.</p><p> </p><p><b>YOU</b> - Shivering from the wind chill, you move towards the window and try to slam it shut.</p><p><b>PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT</b> [Legendary: Failure] - But no matter how much you try to pull it down, the window refuses to budge. </p><p><b>YOU</b> - Frowning, you peer up into the darkness between the window and the ceiling.</p><p>Is it stuck?</p><p> </p><p><b>PERCEPTION (SIGHT)</b> [Legendary: Success] - In the deep shadows near the ceiling, you spot a long, thin piece of cloth that ties the window latch to a steel curtain-bar...</p><p> </p><p><b>LIMBIC SYSTEM</b> - But before you can reach up to remove the accursed piece of cloth, a loud, shrill shriek pierces through the air, and the room jolts so violently that you're almost thrown off the bed.</p><p><b>REACTION SPEED</b> [Challenging: Success] - Before you lose your balance, you manage to grip the curtain bar and hang on for dear life as the room violently swerves to the side.</p><p><b>YOU</b> - What the bloody hell is going on???!!!</p><p> </p><p><b>LIMBIC QUESTION</b> - The answer to your question comes in the form of a second, equally loud and piercing shriek that seems to be coming closer, and closer, and closer---</p><p><b>CONCEPTUALIZATION</b> [Formidable: Success] - The image comes unbidden to your mind: Two black serpents rushing towards each other, their mouths open, their fangs glistening with venom---</p><p><b>ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN</b> - Keep your eyes peeled, Harry-boy.</p><p>You're going to <em> love </em> this one.</p><p> </p><p><b>CONCEPTUALIZATION</b> [Formidable: Success] - Suddenly, at the very last moment, the serpents' bodies jerk and twist away from each other---</p><p><b>YOU</b> - And that's when you see the other train.</p><p> </p><p><b>PERCEPTION (SIGHT)</b> - It rushes past you with such incredible speed and noise that your teeth threaten to vibrate out of your skull.</p><p>Then, all of a sudden---</p><p>Time slows to a crawl.</p><p> </p><p><b>YOU</b> - Utterly baffled, you look through the window to check what happened---</p><p>And what you see makes your blood freeze.</p><p> </p><p><b>INLAND EMPIRE </b>[Godly: Success] - The windows of the other train are wide open, and they pass by your vision like a parade of macabre visions and vivid dreams.</p><p>In the first, you see a man who looks exactly like yourself standing in the middle of a trashed motel room, surrounded by dirty clothing, broken bottles, and wrecked furniture. He is naked save for a pair of stained briefs, and his gross, distended body looks so pitiful that it makes you want to look away---</p><p>But you can't.</p><p>A sad, sad, song plays in the background. He raises a half-empty bottle of Commodore Red to his lips, and the wine dribbles down his chin like a river of blood.</p><p>Then, slowly...</p><p>Drunkenly...</p><p>He turns to look at you.</p><p> </p><p><b>YOU</b> - And the deranged despair in his eyes makes you stumble back in horror and revulsion.</p><p> </p><p><b>INLAND EMPIRE </b>[Godly: Success] - Then the second window comes into view.</p><p>You find yourself staring into a room that is the exact mirror image of your own...</p><p>And then you spot the man who's sitting at the writing desk within it.</p><p> </p><p><b>PERCEPTION (SIGHT)</b> [Formidable: Success] - He's completely focused on scribbling something in his blue notebook. A half-smoked cigarette dangles from his lips, and every now and then, he pauses in his writing to tap off the ash from the end of his stick. A bright orange bomber jacket is draped on the back of his chair, and the warm, yellow light from the desk lamp glints off his glasses---</p><p> </p><p><b>YOU</b> - Your breath catches in your throat.</p><p> </p><p><b>VOLITION</b> [Legendary: Failure] - Compelled by overwhelming excitement and desperation, you lean out of your window---</p><p>"Kim!!!!" you holler.</p><p> </p><p><b>INLAND EMPIRE </b>[Godly: Success] - His pen stills.</p><p>He frowns.</p><p>Then, he raises his head and looks around. </p><p> </p><p><b>YOU</b> - You stare at him in disbelief.</p><p>He...He heard me.</p><p>
  <em> He heard me!!!! </em>
</p><p> </p><p><b>PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT</b> [Challenging: Success] - Bracing yourself against the window sill, you suck in all of the air that your lungs can possibly muster---</p><p>And release it in one ear-shattering sonic boom.</p><p>"KIM!!!!!"</p><p> </p><p><b>INLAND EMPIRE </b>[Godly: Success] - He stands up so fast that he knocks his chair over.</p><p>Visibly confused, he darts his eyes around his room---</p><p>Only for them to settle at his open window...</p><p>And at your frantic, hopeful face.</p><p> </p><p><b>YOU</b> - Your heart stops in your chest.</p><p>Your face breaks out into a wide, bright grin.</p><p>"Kim!!!!" you shout at him again, waving at him like a madman.</p><p> </p><p><b>INLAND EMPIRE </b>[Godly: Success] - He slowly walks towards the window, and the expression on his face is both baffled and wondrous. </p><p>Leaning against his window sill, he looks towards you with narrowed eyes...</p><p> </p><p><b>YOU</b> - "Kim. Kim, it's  me---" you tell him happily.</p><p> </p><p><b>KIM KITSURAGI</b> - He stares at you for a moment longer.</p><p>Then...</p><p>"Huh," he mutters to himself with a shake of his head. "Must be hearing things."</p><p>And with that, he leans back....</p><p>And slams his window shut.</p><p> </p><p><b>YOU</b> - You stare after him.</p><p>"Kim?" you whisper in disbelief.</p><p> </p><p><b>KIM KITSURAGI</b> - Picking up his chair, he sits back down and looks over his notes. </p><p>Then, he begins to write again.</p><p> </p><p><b>YOU</b> - No.</p><p>No no no no no---</p><p>"Kim?! KIM!!!!!"</p><p>You lean so far out of your window that your entire upper body stretches out in the yawning abyss between your trains---</p><p> </p><p><b>INLAND EMPIRE </b>[Godly: Success] - But then time speeds up again.</p><p>And his window disappears as the second train rushes past you with a deafening roar.</p><p> </p><p><b>YOU</b> - Without warning, a massive force yanks you back into the room and throws you to the floor. You scramble around wildly, looking for the monstrous entity that pulled you back---</p><p>But you see no one. </p><p> </p><p><b>INLAND EMPIRE</b> [Godly: Success] - Behind you, Jean mumbles something in his sleep, but does not awaken. He seems completely oblivious to what's going on, and you envy him for that.</p><p> </p><p><b>YOU</b> - You stare at the window in stunned silence for several moments.</p><p>Arby.</p><p>What the hell was that.</p><p> </p><p><b>ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN</b> - You mean that other train? Well that, Harry-boy, was the Train-that-Could-Have-Been.</p><p>It's what your life would've been like, if only you'd plunged headlong into the dark pit of self-loathing despair after the apricot-scented one left you for that other man in Graad...</p><p><b>LIMBIC SYSTEM</b> - A devastating concoction of amphetamines and alcohol would have ravaged through your nervous system, and you would have woken up on the floor of a trashed motel room with no recollection of the animal that you had been. You would have woken up to the sound of a roaring motor carriage, and in that motor carriage---</p><p><b>ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN</b> - He would have been downstairs, Harry. Waiting for you at the lobby, with his hands clasped behind his back and his posture ramrod straight.</p><p><b>LIMBIC SYSTEM</b> - He would have been your partner. </p><p><b>ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN</b> - Your companion. </p><p><b>LIMBIC SYSTEM</b> - Your friend.</p><p><b>ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN</b> - And sooner or later, you would have fallen for him as hopelessly as you had fallen for your ex-wife.</p><p><b>LIMBIC SYSTEM</b> - And against all of your wildest dreams and expectations, he would have fallen for you too.</p><p> </p><p><b>ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN</b> - But guess what, Harry...</p><p>You're not on that train.</p><p>You're on this one.</p><p>And on this train, he's not waiting for you downstairs.</p><p> </p><p><b>LIMBIC SYSTEM - </b>He's not your partner.</p><p><b>ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN </b>- Or your companion.</p><p><b>LIMBIC SYSTEM</b> - Or your friend. </p><p><b>ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN</b> - Oh, you'll still fall for him...</p><p>In fact, you already have, haven't you?</p><p><b>LIMBIC SYSTEM</b> - But there is no guarantee that he will fall for you.</p><p><b>ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN</b> - Not on this train.</p><p> </p><p><b>YOU</b> - Why...</p><p>Why are you telling me this?</p><p> </p><p><b>ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN</b> - Because before you fell asleep, you asked a question, Harry. If I remember correctly, your exact words were... "What the fuck is going on?!"</p><p>Well, brother-man.</p><p>You asked. </p><p>We delivered.</p><p> </p><p><b>YOU</b> - I still have no idea what's going on, you bastard.</p><p> </p><p><b>ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN</b> - Well, that's your problem now, buddy.</p><p>By the way...</p><p>You might want to close the damn window now.</p><p> </p><p><b>YOU</b> - Your gaze lands once again on the wide-open window in front of you.</p><p> </p><p><b>ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN</b> - Unless, of course...</p><p>You want to see more trains passing by.</p><p> </p><p><b>HALF-LIGHT</b> [Easy: Success] - Propelled by sheer terror, you launch yourself off the floor and clamber up the bed to grasp at the piece of cloth that's keeping the window open---</p><p><b>PERCEPTION (SIGHT) </b>[Challenging: Success] - But all of a sudden, you're hit by the realization that you know this piece of cloth, that it looks awfully, awfully familiar...</p><p> </p><p><b>HORRIFIC NECKTIE</b> - Hey, what do you think you're doing???</p><p> </p><p><b>YOU</b> - Startled, you release the necktie and lose your balance---</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><b>YOU</b> - ---only to jolt wide awake on your bed, panting and sweating profusely as the bizarre nightmare finally relinquishes its chokehold on you.</p><p><b>REACTION SPEED</b> [Easy: Success] - With a will of their own, your hands shoot up to your neck and untangle the cursed piece of cloth that's knotted around your throat---</p><p> </p><p><b>HORRIFIC NECKTIE</b> - Oy, what the---???!!</p><p> </p><p><b>REACTION SPEED</b> [Easy: Success] - ---and you pitch it to the floor so forcefully that it lands with a loud smack. </p><p> </p><p><b>JEAN VICQUEMARE</b> - He jolts awake.</p><p>"What the---Harry?" He blinks blearily at you, before looking at the tie that you just lobbed to the floor. </p><p> </p><p><b>YOU</b> - You point a single, trembling finger at the accursed accessory.</p><p>"This is all <em> his </em> fault," you say, with absolute certainty. "He's the reason why I've been seeing all those weird things this morning!"</p><p> </p><p><b>JEAN VICQUEMARE</b> - His jaw drops. </p><p>"What?!" he asks incredulously.</p><p> </p><p><b>HORRIFIC NECKTIE</b> - Yeah! What?! I helped you talk to those two dead people this morning, and this is the kind of thanks that I get?????</p><p> </p><p><b>COMPOSURE</b> - Ahem. </p><p>May I interrupt your furious outrage for a moment?</p><p> </p><p><b>YOU</b> - What is it?</p><p> </p><p><b>COMPOSURE</b> - You might want to tone down the crazy, because Jean's looking at you like you just grew three additional heads, none of which are very good-looking...</p><p><b>YOU</b> - You look at Jean, and confirm that he is, indeed, looking at you like you just grew three additional, particularly ugly heads.</p><p>Oh.</p><p>"Khm." You cough into your fist and straighten your suit in a vain effort to convince Jean that you are absolutely not crazy. "Sorry about that. I...er, had a nightmare. Because of that tie. So. I threw it."</p><p> </p><p><b>JEAN VICQUEMARE</b> - He stares at you.</p><p><b>YOU</b> - You stare back at him.</p><p><b>JEAN VICQUEMARE</b> - "You had a nightmare," he finally says, his face practically glowing with skepticism. "Because of your tie," he carefully repeats.</p><p><b>YOU</b> - You nod. </p><p>"Yes." Then, after a beat. "That's right."</p><p> </p><p><b>SUGGESTION</b> [Legendary: Failure] - They say that honesty is the best policy, but in this case, it definitely wasn't the best.</p><p><b>JEAN VICQUEMARE</b> - Still looking at you warily, he stands up and walks over to where the tie is lying on the floor.</p><p>"Well," he says, slowly. "I'll just...keep the tie for you then. So you don't have any nightmares anymore."</p><p> </p><p><b>HORRIFIC NECKTIE</b> - Don't let him take me away!!! What if he loses me? What if he throws me away? What if---</p><p>It releases a horrified gasp.</p><p>---<em> he puts me through the laundry </em>?????</p><p> </p><p><b>YOU</b> - Then you'd deserve it, you nefarious lil' hallucinogenic neck accessory, you!</p><p><b>VOLITION</b> [Formidable: Success] - You're tempted to shake your fist at the Horrific Necktie, but you manage to stop yourself.</p><p>Just barely, though. </p><p> </p><p><b>JEAN VICQUEMARE</b> - He bends down and picks up the necktie between his thumb and forefinger, as if he were handling a dead snake...</p><p><b>CONCEPTUALIZATION</b> - Or a piece of garbage.</p><p><b>HORRIFIC NECKTIE</b> - Hey, I heard that---!!!!</p><p><b>JEAN VICQUEMARE</b> - But its indignant shouts are promptly cut off when he shoves the tie into his coat pocket.</p><p> </p><p><b>YOU</b> - You breathe a sigh of relief. </p><p>"Thanks, Jean," you say sincerely. </p><p><b>JEAN VICQUEMARE</b> - He gives you a slow, cautious nod. "You're welcome. I think," he mutters unsurely.</p><p> </p><p><b>EMPATHY</b> [Medium: Success] - The lieutenant is still thoroughly weirded out by what just happened, but he's happy to see that you look relieved and relatively well-rested.</p><p><b>LOGIC</b> [Medium: Success] - And, despite the...un-stylish way that you removed the tie from your person, your actions actually make sense. After all, that necktie increases Inland's sensitivity to the things beyond the veil, which may be why it's been acting up so often this morning. </p><p><b>INLAND EMPIRE</b> [Challenging: Failure] - Veil? What veil? And stop acting weird. Everyone knows that neckties can't talk.</p><p> </p><p><b>JEAN VICQUEMARE</b> -  "So, how are you feeling?" he asks with a worried frown on his face.</p><p><b>YOU</b> - You try to give him your most reassuring smile. "A lot better, actually. My head's cleared up, and I don't feel like I'm straddling the thin line between two worlds anymore---"</p><p><b>REACTION SPEED </b>[Challenging: Success] - You just said something weird again!</p><p><b>JEAN VICQUEMARE</b> - He looks even more worried because you just said something weird again.</p><p> </p><p><b>YOU</b> - Wincing, you try to salvage the situation. "---So yeah. I'm feeling better. A lot better!"</p><p><b>RHETORIC</b> - Now shut your mouth before you accidentally say something weird again.</p><p> </p><p><b>JEAN VICQUEMARE</b> - He doesn't look completely convinced by your sad attempt to cover up the weird thing that you just said.</p><p>"Okay, Harry. I'll take your word for it," he finally says. </p><p><b>YOU</b> - "Thanks, Jean," you say, grateful that he let you off easy. </p><p> </p><p><b>JEAN VICQUEMARE</b> - He gives you one last, wary look before sitting down on his chair again. "Hey, I've been thinking... Do you need to have one of those little voice conferences of yours before we head to the fishing village?"</p><p><b>LOGIC</b> - That's an excellent idea.</p><p><b>VOLITION</b> - Yes, absolutely.</p><p><b>AUTHORITY</b> - It is of utmost importance that you weed out those among us who have been...compromised by this morning's events.</p><p><b>DRAMA</b> [Legendary: Failure] - Surely, you cannot possibly refer to me!</p><p><b>EMPATHY</b> [Legendary: Failure] - You just want to make me feel bad!</p><p><b>RHETORIC</b> [Legendary: Failure] - I'll have you know that I have a perfect track record---</p><p> </p><p><b>YOU</b> - Okay, that does it.</p><p>"Yeah, I think I definitely need to do that," you tell Jean. "Some of them seem pretty messed up by everything that happened this morning, so I'll need some time to get them all back on track."</p><p> </p><p><b>JEAN VICQUEMARE</b> - He seems to be satisfied by your answer. </p><p>"How much time do you think you'll need?"</p><p> </p><p><b>LOGIC</b> - One hour. The first hour will be spent going over the morning events once more, so that Volition, Authority, and myself can determine who among us have been adversely affected by the dead woman and the mechanic.</p><p><b>YOU</b> - Wait. What does Kim have to do with this???</p><p><b>LOGIC</b> - Ah. You've been compromised too. </p><p>Two hours, then.</p><p><b>YOU</b> - But---!!!</p><p><b>LOGIC</b> - Do you really want me to push for three?</p><p> </p><p><b>YOU</b> - Sighing, you hold up two fingers. </p><p>"Two hours. Give me two hours," you tell Jean.</p><p> </p><p><b>JEAN VICQUEMARE</b> - "Alright. I might as well head back to Jamrock and pick up my things while you're at it," he says.</p><p><b>YOU</b> - "Good idea. I'll knock at your door to let you know when I'm done. Then we can brainstorm about what we should do next."</p><p><b>JEAN VICQUEMARE</b> - "Sounds like a plan," he says, with a look on his face that says that he's relieved that you were able to come up with a coherent course of action for the both of you. </p><p> </p><p><b>YOU</b> - Was I that bad this morning?</p><p><b>LOGIC</b> - You just accused your necktie of giving you nightmares. </p><p><b>YOU</b> - ...Good point.</p><p> </p><p><b>JEAN VICQUEMARE</b> - "I'll leave you to it then," he says as he stands up. "You'd better not get into any trouble while I'm away, shitkid."</p><p><b>YOU</b> - You grin up at him. "Can't promise anything, Vicquemare. But I'll do my best."</p><p><b>JEAN VICQUEMARE</b> - He smirks and moves towards the door---</p><p> </p><p><b>YOU</b> - "Oh, by the way, Jean."</p><p><b>JEAN VICQUEMARE</b> - He turns and looks back at you. </p><p> </p><p><b>YOU</b> - You give him a conspiratorial wink. </p><p>"Say hi to Trant for me, will you?"</p><p><b>JEAN VICQUEMARE</b> - He promptly turns a brilliant shade of red.</p><p><b>COMPOSURE</b> [Trivial: Success] - Touché.</p><p> </p><p><b>JEAN VICQUEMARE</b> - "Sh-shut up, shitkid!" he says, opening the door with far too much force than necessary and marching out of it.</p><p>When the door slams shut behind him, you can't help but grin. </p><p> </p><p><b>YOU</b> - He's totally going to Trant's house.</p><p><b>ELECTROCHEMISTRY</b> [Trivial: Success] - You could've just told him you needed three hours so that he and Trant could get in a quick---</p><p><b>VOLITION</b> [Legendary: Success] - Stop thinking about your colleagues' love lives and start the voice conference already.</p><p> </p><p><b>YOU</b> - Ah, right.</p><p>"Alright, gentlemen," you say to the empty room.</p><p>"Time to get our shit together."</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>"Hey, Glen!"</p><p>Turning off his welding torch, Glen swipes up his face shield and blinks down at Titus, who's standing right below the industrial crate that Glen's been repairing for the past hour. </p><p>"What is it, Hardie?" he growls. "Can't you see I'm busy here?"</p><p> </p><p>Titus ignores his tone. "We're supposed to meet Ace at the arcade. Go and wash up already."</p><p>A muscle twitches in Glen's jaw. </p><p>"Fuck off," he says, putting his face mask back on. "I have better things to do than meet up with that fucking chink---"</p><p> </p><p>"Glen!" Titus shouts, his voice tinged with affronted anger.</p><p>Stifling the pained twinge in his heart at the thought of Titus being mad at him, Glen ignores his friend and turns his welding torch back on.</p><p>When he aims the torch back at the metal plates beneath him, he imagines that he's firing the flame into the face of the bastard who stole his best friend---</p><p>He doesn't stop welding until he's sure that Titus is gone.</p><p> </p><p>After looking around to make sure that none of the other Hardie boys are around, Glen packs up his things and washes up.</p><p>Then, he climbs up the stairs next to the dock's heavy-duty crane, and quickly walks towards a large, green industrial container.</p><p>"Hey there, Glen!" Easy Leo crows from across the gap between them. "Wanna listen to my new song?"</p><p> </p><p>"Shut up, Leo!" Glen shouts back. "Don't have time for your container shit."</p><p>And before he could feel bad for shouting at poor ol’ Easy Leo, of all people, Glen pounds at the door of the green industrial container and lets himself in.</p><p> </p><p>"Why, Glen!" Evrart Claire says from behind his office table. "I didn't expect a visit from your esteemed self. To what do I owe the pleasure?"</p><p>"Evrart," Glen says gruffly, warily eyeing the torture device that's pretending to be a chair in front of the obese man's desk.</p><p>"Oh, where are my manners? Please," Evrart says, gesturing towards the chair, "have a seat."</p><p> </p><p>Glen stares at the chair.</p><p>He gulps.</p><p>"Nah, I'm good," he says eventually.</p><p> </p><p>Evrart clucks his tongue and shakes his head. "Oh, Glen. We can't have a conversation man-to-man with you towering over lil’ ol’ me like that. Come on, have a seat. It'll just be like old times."</p><p>And fuck, Glen really should've seen this coming. </p><p>He steels his buttocks---</p><p>And gingerly sits down on the excruciating little chair.</p><p> </p><p>"So," Evrart leans forward on his desk. "How can I help you today, Glen?"</p><p>Even as the chair begins to chew into Glen’s spine, he manages to give a coherent answer to Evrart's question. </p><p>"Got...something about Ace," he says through gritted teeth.</p><p> </p><p>Evrart's beady eyes instantly light up.</p><p>"Oh. Oh, that's <em> wonderful </em>," he says. "I've been meaning to ask after our common...friend," Evrart smiles. "How's he doing?"</p><p>Cold sweat starts to drip down Glen's face as he begins to lose all feeling in his right leg.</p><p>"He's...he's in big trouble," Glen says. </p><p>And he tells Evrart everything.</p><p> </p><p>By the end of it, Glen's lower body feels so cramped that he probably won't be able to walk straight for <em> weeks </em>, and Evrart looks so giddy that he looks just about ready to launch out of that cushy chair of his. </p><p>"Glen," Evrart says with a huge grin on his face. "You've just made my day--no, my entire <em> life </em>. I knew you'd come through for me. You were always the smartest one among the Hardies---"</p><p>"Cut the crap, Evrart, and just give me my fucking money," Glen says, because he's not willing to spend another <em> second </em> in that damn chair. </p><p> </p><p>"Oh, of course, of course," Evrart says, taking out a blank check and writing a stupendous amount on it. </p><p>Glen's eyes widen at the number of zeroes that flow out of Evrart's fountain pen.</p><p>"Here you go, Glen. Every centim well-earned," Evrart says with a bright grin, and Glen jumps up from the evil chair and swipes the check from his grubby hands.</p><p> </p><p>"Hmph," Glen mutters, stowing the check into his pocket. "You'd better not tell Titus any of this, or I swear---"</p><p>Evrart clutches his chest in mock hurt. "Why, Glen. I'm an honest businessman. Of course I won't drop your name to a living soul. My lips are sealed---"</p><p><em> Unlike yours </em>, the fat pig seems to say, and fuck if that doesn't make Glen want to wipe that shit-eating grin off his face with a sock to the jaw. </p><p> </p><p>At that moment, Glen decides that while he really, really hates Evrart Claire...</p><p>He hates Ace more. </p><p> </p><p>As Glen leaves his office, Evrart Claire sits quietly for a few moments and drums his fingers against his desk.</p><p>Then, he picks up his telephone and dials a number.</p><p>It rings three times before someone picks up.</p><p> </p><p>"Hello, yes, this is Evrart Claire from the Martinaise Dockworkers' Union," he says in his smoothest voice. "I have some news for Mr. Blackjack about his...brother."</p><p>Then, Evrart smiles and savors the sweet taste of victory.</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>1) The alternate title of this chapter is: "Competent!Harry is So Self-Aware that He Actually Realizes that He's in an AU"</p><p>2) We all need an Emotional Support Trant in our lives.</p><p>3) Please do expect the train metaphor to come back in later chapters <strike>and bite Harry in the ass</strike>.</p><p>4) The art in this chapter is a Secret Santa gift from <a href="https://twitter.com/inescaramujo">caramujo</a>! Please check out all of their awesome work!</p><p>Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoyed this chapter! &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. The Honey Trap</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>It’s Tuesday morning, and Kim is peering into the engine of Tommy Le Homme’s lorry with a frown on his face. </p><p>“Sorry, Tommy,” he says. “Looks like she'll have to stay here for a couple of days. Your timing belt’s all worn out, and one of the piston rings is busted, which means that your fuel compression’s practically...well," he shrugs apologetically. "Shit.”</p><p> </p><p>Beside him, Tommy releases a heavy sigh. </p><p>“It’s okay, Kim,” he says, his face long and drawn. “Should’ve brought her in sooner, when she started misfiring… Just thought I could save up on some cash, you know?”</p><p>When Kim started to offer his auto-repair services to the residents of Martinaise, he made sure to tell them that he was doing it for free. After all, he didn’t need their money. He just wanted to give something back to the community that had so generously embraced him as one of their own. </p><p>But despite his protests, all of his customers still stubbornly insisted on paying him one way or another. Some of them paid in cash, while others paid in groceries, discounted FALN products, or in one particularly memorable case, an unlimited supply of pet rocks. </p><p>Still, Kim tries to remind them that they don’t actually have to give him anything, if only because he’s running out of room for all of their gifts in his apartment. </p><p> </p><p>“Tommy,” Kim says patiently. “You know I’d be more than happy to do this for free, right?”</p><p>Tommy gives him a stricken look. “Yeah… But…” He sighs again. “You just do such a good job at fixing up my girl that I’d feel horrible if I didn’t give you anything for it.”</p><p>And once again, Kim is reminded that he absolutely doesn’t deserve to be with these people. </p><p> </p><p>“Give me a day and she’ll be good as new,” Kim promises. “In the meantime, you can pay me by writing a new song. The dockworkers loved that little ditty that you wrote last time. They wouldn’t stop singing it for weeks.”</p><p>Tommy glances at him in surprise. “You...you sure about that? I have a few hundred real stashed away---”</p><p>Kim raises a hand to stop him. “Keep it for your family, Lefitte. Buy a pretty dress for Laura. Get some toys for your kids. Mimi’s birthday’s coming up next week, right?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah...How’d you know?” Tommy asks him with an awed look on his face.</p><p>“You told me last week,” Kim reminds him with a smile. “Wouldn’t shut up about how big she’s grown."</p><p>Tommy looks so grateful that Kim gets worried that the other man might try to hug him.</p><p> </p><p>“...Okay,” Tommy eventually says with a grin. “I’ll see if I can whip up a song for the guys by tomorrow.”</p><p>He extends a hand out towards Kim. </p><p>Kim looks at Tommy’s hand for a beat. </p><p>But he takes it.</p><p> </p><p>“Thanks, Kim,” Tommy says, shaking his hand firmly. “I’ll pay you back with more than a song someday, I promise.”</p><p>Kim smiles at him and returns his handshake. "You can thank me after I resurrect your engine, Le Homme," he says. "Goodness knows I'll need a small miracle to get this lady up and running again..."</p><p> </p><p>As Tommy laughs and lets go of his hand, Kim spots someone standing by the gate to the backyard...</p><p>When he looks over Tommy's shoulder, he ends up locking eyes with Detective Harry Du Bois.</p><p> </p><p><em>Ah</em>, Kim says.</p><p><em>Time to deal with the Human Can Opener</em>, Ace thinks.</p><p> </p><p>"Kim? Someone there?" Tommy asks, following Kim's gaze.</p><p>He freezes when he spots Harry. </p><p>"That a cop?" Tommy whispers to Kim.</p><p>"Yeah," Kim whispers back. "But don't worry. He doesn't mean any harm."</p><p> </p><p>And somehow, despite his wariness towards this particular detective, Kim knows that statement is absolutely true.</p><p> </p><p>Harry loiters by the gate, as if he was waiting for Tommy to leave before approaching Kim.</p><p>"Go ahead, Tommy," Kim says. "Drop by again tomorrow, if you want."</p><p>Tommy shoots a worried look between Kim and the detective, but nods eventually.</p><p>"You take care, Kim," he whispers.</p><p>Kim nods. "I will."</p><p> </p><p>When Tommy finally walks away, Kim makes a show of nonchalantly looking over the lorry's engine again, as if he were completely oblivious to the detective's presence.</p><p>He only looks up when someone clears their throat beside him.</p><p><em>It's showtime</em>, Ace says.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><b>YOU </b>- It's Tuesday early morning, and you're getting ready to head to the backyard and interview Kim for the second time.</p><p>“So,” you say to your empty motel room. “Let’s go over this again."</p><p><b>HAND-EYE COORDINATION</b> [Medium: Success] - You pace back and forth between the bed and the door, tossing and catching a pen in the air while doing so. </p><p>“What’s our strategy for talking to him?”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>"Good morning, Mr. Kitsuragi," Harry says. </p><p><em>What happened to calling us Kim?</em> Ace asks.</p><p>"Good morning, Detective. And please, call me Kim."</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><b>LOGIC </b>- You’ll take everything that Drama says and turn it upside down. </p><p><b>DRAMA</b> - Indeed, sire. For example, if I say that our dear mechanic is telling the truth---</p><p><b>YOU</b> - Then he’s lying through his teeth.</p><p><b>DRAMA</b> - Excellent! And vice-versa. </p><p><b>PAIN THRESHOLD</b> [Godly: Failure] - The thought of Kim lying to you is absolutely heartbreaking, but you know that you have to be ready for that.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Harry gives him a bright smile. "Well, in that case, please call me Harry."</p><p>Kim is taken aback by how earnest the his smile is.</p><p><em>Is this guy for real?</em>  he asks. </p><p><em>Only one way to find out</em>, Ace replies.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><b>LOGIC</b> - You’ll also have to assume that Empathy and Rhetoric will be compromised when you speak to him, so be on your guard. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>"How's the investigation going?" Kim asks Harry. </p><p>The detective shrugs. "Nothing special so far," he says. "We spent the whole afternoon at the fishing village yesterday, but we didn't find out anything new... Most of the residents were in bed when the accident happened, so they didn't really see anything."</p><p>Kim breathes a quiet sigh of relief. Titus told him that Eugene and Fat Angus had made their rounds before the police arrived at the scene, and it looks like the people in the village stuck to their statements.</p><p>He makes a mental note to personally thank each one of them as soon as possible.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><b>ELECTROCHEMISTRY</b> - Just going to pop in here and say that I am completely and utterly enthralled by that hot mechanic, so please don’t listen to me when I start describing how you want to ravish him in extreme detail.</p><p><b>YOU</b> - You feel a warm flush creep up your cheeks.</p><p>Shut up, EC.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>"Actually, Kim. I, uh..." Harry sheepishly scratches his nape.</p><p><em>Why is he so flustered?</em>  Kim wonders. </p><p><em>It's because he tried to touch us on the cheek</em>, <em>remember? </em>Ace reminds him.</p><p> </p><p>Yes, Kim remembers.</p><p>He remembers all too well.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><b>AUTHORITY </b>- Now that you’ve removed that accursed necktie, Inland Empire’s sensitivity has been diminished, so you should be able to go through an entire conversation with Kim without  having one of those strange visions. </p><p><br/><b>INLAND EMPIRE</b> [Legendary: Failure] - Visions? What are...visions?</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>"I just wanted to apologize for what happened yesterday," Harry finally says, and when Kim looks into the detective's eyes, he sees nothing but sincerity.</p><p><em>Huh. Looks like this guy's for real</em>, Ace concludes. <em>Do you want to play around with him for a bit?</em> </p><p>And, since Kim was never one to pass up an opportunity to win a decisive victory over his opponents...</p><p><em>Yeah</em>, he answers.</p><p><em>Yeah, why not</em>. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><strong>JEAN VICQUEMARE</strong> - "You want to do what?!" he asks you incredulously. </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - "I'd like to spend this whole day interviewing Kim again. Alone," you repeat.</p><p><strong>EMPATHY</strong> [Easy: Success] - He heard you the first time, but he still can't believe that you just said.</p><p><strong>JEAN VICQUEMARE</strong> - "I don't mean to offend, Harry, but you were barely keeping it together when you talked to him yesterday. What makes you think this time will go any better? And please," he says, raising a pre-emptive hand. "If you're going to say that it'll go better because you're not wearing that awful necktie, I'll punch you in the face."</p><p><strong>DRAMA</strong> [Easy: Success] - The lieutenant's threat is genuine, sire.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>"Don't worry about it, Harry," Kim says. "You must've been tired from investigating the accident. Actually, I...wanted to apologize too," he adds quietly. "I shouldn't have gripped you so hard---"</p><p>"No, no!" Harry interjects quickly. "It was...inappropriate for me to have done that, so you were right to stop me."</p><p><em>Inappropriate?</em> Ace scoffs. <em>We should teach him what inappropriate <strong>really</strong> looks like...</em></p><p><em>Maybe later</em>, Kim decides, as he glances at Harry's wide shoulders and burly biceps.</p><p>
  <em>We should let him take us out to dinner first. </em>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - "I'm sure you noticed that there was something up with him," you say. "He's hiding something, Jean, and I want to get to the bottom of it."</p><p><strong>JEAN VICQUEMARE</strong> - "So why don't you want me to be there?"</p><p><strong>EMPATHY</strong> [Easy: Success] - He's a bit hurt by the thought that he'll be an obstacle to your interview with Kim.</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - Sighing, you look Jean straight in the eye. "I do want you to be there. It's just...I have a feeling he'll clam up even more if he feels that we're ganging up on him."</p><p><strong>JEAN VICQUEMARE</strong> - He narrows his eyes and crosses his arms, but he seems to see your point.</p><p>"And what should I be doing while you're out on your little date?" he asks. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>"By the way, Harry," Kim asks, "where's your partner?"</p><p>"Oh, Jean? He had to go back to Jamrock to check on something," Harry says. "He'll be out the whole day, so it's just going to be me against the world."</p><p><em>If he's alone, then he's vulnerable</em>, Ace says. </p><p><em>This is our chance</em>.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - "I need you to go to Faubourg to check on the results of the coroner's investigation on those corpses," you tell Jean. "I have a hunch that we might have missed something during the field autopsy, and we'll need every scrap of information that we can get our hands on if we want to crack this case wide open."</p><p><strong>JEAN VICQUEMARE</strong> - He mulls over your suggestion quietly. "I could go and follow up with Oldboy about that list from LUM too," he says. "Maybe even drop by their head office, just to be thorough about it."</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - You grin at him. "That's a great idea."</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>"I see," Kim says. </p><p>Then, he casually lifts his glasses off his face...</p><p>And uses the bottom of his shirt to wipe the sweat off his brow. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><strong>JEAN VICQUEMARE</strong> - He raises a skeptical eyebrow. "You sure you don't want me out of your hair just so you can get inside that mechanic's pants?"</p><p><strong>COMPOSURE</strong> [Legendary: Failure] - You promptly choke on your own spit.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Harry looks devastated.</p><p><em>That got his attention,</em> Ace says.</p><p>Kim schools his face into an expression of wide-eyed innocence.</p><p>"Detective? Are you alright?" he asks with mock concern, still holding his shirt up so that the lean muscles of his abdomen are bared for the whole world to see.</p><p> </p><p>Harry's mouth flaps open a few times before he manages to form words again.</p><p>"Uh," he says eloquently, his eyes still locked onto Kim's midriff. "Yes. I'm. Okay."</p><p> </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - "Jean," you say in between coughs, "you don't just ask something like that out of nowhere!"</p><p><strong>JEAN VICQUEMARE</strong> - He just smirks at you and crosses his arms. </p><p>"Don't scandalize the locals by seducing the neighborhood mechanic while I'm away, shitkid."</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - Groaning, you bury your burning face in your hands.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Finally, Kim relents and lets go of his shirt.</p><p>"You look a bit...feverish," he says with a worried frown. "Are you sure you're feeling okay?"</p><p>And, since Kim's a sadistic bastard, he reaches out and plants his palm on Harry's burning forehead.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - Okay, gentlemen. Time for some contingency plans.</p><p>Who can take over in case my brain gets fried again?</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>To Kim's surprise, Harry reaches up and grips his wrist with one, large hand.</p><p><em>He's strong,</em> Kim notes.</p><p><em>And he's holding back</em>, Ace adds. <em>Can you imagine how it would feel like if he used his full strength?</em></p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><strong>COMPOSURE</strong> - It'll be a joint effort between myself, Authority, and Volition.</p><p><strong>LOGIC </strong>- Just don't try deducing anything during those moments, because I'll be busy putting out the fires in your cerebral cortex.</p><p><strong>ELECTROCHEMISTRY</strong> - Trust me, I won't even be in the picture.</p><p>Absolutely not.</p><p>Nuh-uh.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>"Yeah, I'm okay," Harry says with an easy smile on his face. "Thanks for asking, Kim."</p><p>Suddenly, Kim is taken aback by the sensation of Harry's thumb gently running across the sensitive skin of his wrist...</p><p> </p><p>A tendril of heat simmers in his gut.</p><p> </p><p><em>Ah</em>, Ace says. </p><p>
  <em>This'll be more fun than we expected.</em>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - So how are we going to proceed with the interview?</p><p><strong>SAVOIR FAIRE</strong> - Don't make it too formal. Make it...light. Easy. Casual.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>"Actually, Kim," Harry says as he lets go of Kim's hand---</p><p>And Kim is definitely not disappointed by that sudden loss of physical contact.</p><p> </p><p><em>He's a dangerous one</em>, Kim tells Ace.</p><p><em>But that just makes everything so much better, doesn't it? </em>Ace replies. </p><p> </p><p>"I was thinking..." Harry starts to say.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - We have the whole day to try and get something useful out of him. How do we make the most out of it?</p><p><strong>LOGIC</strong> - Well, you can hit two birds with one stone by asking him if he'd be willing to---</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>"...would you be willing to tour me around the neighborhood today?" Harry asks. "Only if you're free of course. It's just that I'm hoping to get to know the people around here, but they might shut me out if I go alone."</p><p>Kim blinks.</p><p><em>Is this a trap?</em> he asks Ace. </p><p><em>If it is, then it's one that you can manipulate to our advantage</em>, Ace replies. <em>We'll get to control whom and what he investigates. </em><em>Get to know him some more. Find out his weaknesses. </em></p><p>
  <em>Then strike him down. </em>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - What if he says no?</p><p><strong>SAVOIR FAIRE</strong> - Then ask him of you can---</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>"Oh, and even if you can't, I'd still like to treat you out to lunch today," Harry says with a nervous smile. "As an...apology. For yesterday."</p><p>Kim blinks at him again.</p><p>
  <em>Wait. Is he...asking us out?</em>
</p><p> </p><p>In his mind, Ace shrugs. </p><p><em>Could be a trap, could be a date. Could be both</em>, he says. </p><p> </p><p>Kim mulls over that for a moment. </p><p><em>Well, whatever it is, </em>he concludes.<em> We still get a free lunch. </em></p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - Okay, guys.</p><p>Sounds like a plan.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>"I'd be happy to show you around, Harry," Kim says with a small smile. "You don't have to buy me lunch, though---"</p><p>"No, no!" Harry exclaims. "I insist!"</p><p> </p><p><em>It's a date</em>, Kim confirms.</p><p><em>Definitely a date</em>, Ace says.</p><p> </p><p>"All right. Let me just wash up and pack away my things," Kim says. "Would you mind waiting for me outside?" </p><p>Harry looks so excited that he seems ready to jump in the air, and Kim is surprised to feel a twinge of real fondness towards him.</p><p> </p><p><em>Watch out</em>, <em>Speedfreak</em>, Ace says.</p><p>
  <em>He'll crack us wide open if we let our guard down .</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Just as Ace's warning rings through Kim's mind, Harry astounds them both by making guns with his fingers and waggling them happily in the air.</p><p>Kim frowns at him.</p><p>"...What was that about, Detective?" he asks, genuinely perplexed. </p><p> </p><p>Immediately, Harry winces and tucks his finger-guns away behind him. </p><p>"Uh. Sorry. Force of habit," he says with a nervous grin.  </p><p> </p><p><em>He's either a genius or an idiot</em>, Ace dryly comments. </p><p> </p><p>Kim hides a chuckle behind his fist.</p><p><em>Well</em>, he replies. <em>Whatever he is...</em></p><p>
  <em>We're stuck with him for the whole day. </em>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>As Kim closes the backyard gate, he mulls about where he should bring Harry first. The docks would be off-limits right now, and Harry's already been to the fishing village, which leaves the Capeside apartments and---</p><p>He stifles a wince.</p><p> </p><p>He turns around, only to see Harry looking up at the bright, neon-lit letters above the entrance of---</p><p>Kim groans to himself.</p><p> </p><p><em>It shouldn't be so bad, </em>Ace quips. <em>Our people already know what they should say when the police show up, so we should be fine</em>.</p><p> </p><p>"Hey, Kim," Harry says, pointing at the name of the pinball arcade. "Do you know who came up with the name for this place?"</p><p>Sighing, Kim walks over to Harry's side and looks up.</p><p>"Yes," he says in a deadpan tone. "Someone with no imagination whatsoever."</p><p> </p><p>When Ace had asked Siileng to come up with a name for the arcade, the Samaran man's face had lit up with glee.</p><p>"It's gotta be something...big," Siileng had said with a faraway look on his face. "Something catchy, something hip, something---<em>shiny</em>."</p><p>And thus, the Bling Bling Bonanza Pinball Emporium was born.</p><p> </p><p>"Huh," Harry says. "It's a pretty catchy name, actually. I like it."</p><p><em>Note to self</em>, Kim thinks.<em> This detective has absolutely no taste</em>. </p><p><em>Well, if he's taken a liking to us, I'd say he has excellent taste</em>, Ace corrects him. </p><p> </p><p>Harry stays silent for a beat.</p><p>Then, he shoots a hesitant glance at Kim.</p><p> </p><p>"So, uh..." Harry says, and Kim already knows what he's about to ask. </p><p>He sighs in resignation.</p><p>"It's alright, Detective," he says. "We can go in. I know the people who work here, anyway."</p><p> </p><p>Harry gives him a smile so full of gratitude that Kim's tempted to look away in embarrassment. </p><p>
  <em>He keeps smiling at us. Why does he keep smiling at us?</em>
</p><p><em>Do we want him to stop?</em> Ace asks. </p><p> </p><p>Kim glances over at Harry's smile.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>...No.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Not really.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>With the enthusiasm of a ten-year-old boy, Harry jogs up the steps in front of the pinball arcade and strides towards the entrance. </p><p>Then, he pushes one of the swinging doors and holds it open for Kim.</p><p> </p><p>"After you," Harry says with a courtly flourish. </p><p>And Kim absolutely hates how that gesture makes his ears turn warm.</p><p> </p><p><em>You're the eldest son of the most powerful crime lord in Revachol</em>, Ace reminds him.<em> Don't tell me you're actually going to fall for this lame gimmick</em>.</p><p><em>I'm not,</em> Kim assures him.</p><p> </p><p>Schooling his face into an expressionless mask, Kim strides into the pinball arcade---</p><p>"Mr. Ace!!!!!!!"</p><p>---And almost gets bowled over by an excited fourteen-year-old. </p><p> </p><p><em>Fuck</em>, Ace hisses.</p><p>
  <em>She called us <strong>Ace.</strong></em>
</p><p> </p><p>As Kim tries to regain his balance, he sees Harry's face light up with interest from the corner of his eye.</p><p>"Ace?" Harry asks. </p><p>"It's a nickname of mine," Kim quickly says. "A nickname that I <em>only use when I'm at work</em>," he says pointedly at the preteen who's still hugging him.</p><p> </p><p>"Oh!" Annette pulls back and looks up at Kim with wide eyes. "Sorry, Mr. Kim!" --and he breathes a quiet sigh of relief that she was able to catch on to his drift--- "I didn't know you were with a friend!"</p><p><em>What's she doing here anyway?</em> Ace asks. </p><p>"Annette, aren't you supposed to be at school right now?" Kim asks her.</p><p> </p><p>She beams up at him. "We're on Spring Break," she says. "I asked Mom if I could stay here and help her man the prizes booth, so here I am!"</p><p>Before Kim can respond to that, Harry walks up to them and clears his throat.</p><p>"Oh. Sorry, Detective," Kim says, giving him an apologetic look. "This is Annette, the daughter of the arcade's bookkeeper."</p><p> </p><p>"Detective?" Annette says, letting go of Kim so that she can peer up at Harry with a mixture of suspicion and curiosity.</p><p>"Yes, indeed, young lady," Harry says, standing up straighter and giving her a mock salute. "Detective Harry Du Bois at your servi---"</p><p>Annette cuts him off. "You don't look like a detective," she says.</p><p> </p><p>Harry gapes at her.</p><p>Kim stifles a chuckle behind his fist.</p><p> </p><p>Then, Harry narrows his eyes, but Kim notes that they're glinting with mirth.</p><p>"Oh really?" Harry asks, bending down so that he's at eye-level with Annette. "And how, pray tell, should detectives look like, little miss?"</p><p>Annette raises her chin. "They should look like Dick Mullen," she says with the intellectual certainty of an adolescent bookworm. "He's handsome, clean-shaven, dressed in a trench coat and," she points at the top of Harry's head, "he always, <em>always</em> has a detective's hat on."</p><p>Harry's face warps into a mask of dismay. "Oh no!" he gasps, frantically patting the top of his head. "I<em> knew</em> I forgot something at home today!"</p><p>Annette actually giggles at that, and Kim feels his cold, dead heart thaw a bit at that sound.</p><p> </p><p><em>He's surprisingly good with kids</em>, Kim observes.</p><p><em>Probably because he has the maturity of a twelve-year-old</em>, Ace replies.</p><p> </p><p>"Well, in that case," Harry tells Annette. "I'm going to have to<em> prove</em> to you that I'm a detective."</p><p>"Oh really?" Annette asks, crossing her arms and narrowing her eyes in a way that reminds Kim of her mother, Plaisance. "And how would you do that, <em>Mr. Fake Detective</em>?" she asks.</p><p>Harry takes her jibe with good humor. "Why, I'll deduce something about you of course," he says with a confident grin. "Right here, right now."</p><p> </p><p>Kim's arches an eyebrow at Harry's bravado.</p><p>Annette does so too, but her version is far less intimidating than Kim's.</p><p> </p><p>"Alright," Annette says, puffing out her chest. "I <em>dare</em> you to deduce something about me."</p><p>Harry straightens up and strokes his chin while making a show of looking over Annette from head to toe.</p><p>With his curiosity piqued, Kim crosses his arms and waits for Harry's deduction.</p><p> </p><p><em>Time to see whether there's any truth behind the rumors</em>, he tells Ace.</p><p><em>I wouldn't keep my hopes up if I were you</em>, Ace says. </p><p><em>You <strong>are</strong> me</em>, Kim points out.</p><p> </p><p>Harry narrows his eyes and hums thoughtfully.</p><p>Then, after a few more seconds, he snaps his fingers.</p><p>"Got it," he says with a victorious grin.</p><p>Despite the skeptical expression on her face, Annette leans forward ever-so-slightly, and Kim smiles at her admirable attempt to hide her eagerness. </p><p> </p><p>Harry clears his throat. </p><p>"You just learned how to ride a bicycle this week," he says. "You have the habit of staying up late and reading books under your bed-covers with a flashlight. And---" He leans closer to Annette and gives her a knowing wink. "You have an orange tabby cat at home named Tibby."</p><p> </p><p>Annette gasps and covers her mouth. Her eyes become as wide as saucers.</p><p>Kim's eyebrows shoot up in surprise. </p><p>Harry happily shoots finger guns at the both of them.</p><p> </p><p>"How---how did you---" Annette stammers.</p><p>Harry clucks his tongue and shakes his head. "A true detective would never reveal his most secret techniques to civilians," he says somberly. "After all, you never know if a criminal might be listening in on our conversation..."</p><p>Kim stifles a flinch.</p><p> </p><p>Annette glares at Harry. "Of course I knew that!" she says with such conviction that Kim is firmly convinced that she did <em>not</em>, in fact, know that. "I just...forgot about it," she adds after a beat.</p><p>Harry grins at her again. "So, are you convinced that I'm a real detective?"</p><p> </p><p>Annette sniffs petulantly, but her eyes are filled with admiration and wonder.</p><p>"Fine. I'm convinced," she finally says. "But even if you <em>are</em> a detective, you still don't look like one!"</p><p> </p><p>And, before either Harry or Kim could react, she bolts off and disappears into the maze of pinball machines in front of them. </p><p>Harry blinks. </p><p>"Did...Did I say something wrong?" he asks Kim, and the expression on his face is so baffled and worried that Kim can't help but pat him on the back.</p><p> </p><p>"You did well, Harry," Kim says. "You seem to have impressed her, actually."</p><p>Then, after a beat...</p><p>"You certainly impressed me," he adds.</p><p> </p><p>Harry flushes at his praise.</p><p> </p><p><em>That's it, stroke his ego</em>, Ace says. </p><p> </p><p>"Do you want to know how I did it?" Harry asks him with a mischievous glint in his eyes.</p><p>Kim pretends to look warily over his shoulders. "But Detective," he whispers. "There might be...<em>criminals</em> around here."</p><p>Harry actually laughs out lout at that, and Kim's lips quirk up in a small smile.</p><p>"Okay," Harry says, his eyes still filled with mirth. "I'll tell you later, then. When we're...alone."</p><p>And Kim is surprised to find that, despite the fact that he has everything to hide from Harry, he's actually okay with the idea of being somewhere alone with this childish, brilliant man.</p><p> </p><p><em>He fascinates you</em>, Ace whispers.</p><p><em>And you fascinate him</em>. </p><p> </p><p>"Ready to look around, Detective?" Kim asks, tearing his gaze away from Harry's ocean-green eyes. "I think the manager should be around here somewhere---"</p><p>Then, like an entrepreneurial gremlin summoned by Kim's words, Siileng magically appears at the back of the room and hurriedly jogs towards them.</p><p>"Mr. Kim!" he exclaims, throwing his arms wide open. "What a pleasure! We don't get to see ya here that often---" </p><p> </p><p>Siileng cuts off when he spots Harry standing beside Kim.</p><p>His eyebrows shoot up above his sunglasses.</p><p>Then, a wide, shit-eating grin immediately plasters itself onto his face.</p><p> </p><p>"And ya even brought a new customer!" he says, with a happy clap of his hands. "Hiya, pal! Name's Siileng, proud manager of this humble establishment."</p><p>He extends a hand towards Harry, who takes it with wary politeness. </p><p> </p><p>"Nice to meet you, Siileng," Harry says, his smile turning into a wince as Siileng pumps his hand up and down with so much force that Kim worries that his manager might dislocate the detective's shoulder. </p><p>"Hi, Siileng," Kim says. "This is Detective Harry Du Bois from the RCM---"</p><p>Siileng gasps and drops Harry's hand like it was a hot potato. "A detective??? A real, honest-to-goodness gumshoe? Here? In my pinball arcade?" </p><p>"Erm. Yes---" Harry begins to say.</p><p>"What an honor!" Siileng crows, and his delight seems so genuine that Kim congratulates himself for hiring such an excellent conman.</p><p> </p><p>"Tell ya what, Detective," Siileng says with a grin. "I'll give you twenty free tokens, unlimited access to the soda bar, and," he says, raising a finger for emphasis. "you and Mr. Kim here get free ice cream from Mr. Hypercarnivore!"</p><p>Harry blinks at Siileng. </p><p>Then, he looks at Kim.</p><p> </p><p>"Tokens? Soda bar? Mr. Hypercarnivore?" he asks, looking a bit overwhelmed by Siileng's flood of freebies.</p><p>Kim coughs into his fist.</p><p>"The tokens are for the pinball machines. The soda bar is somewhere on the right," he says. "And Mr. Hypercarnivore is..."</p><p> </p><p>He glances over at Siileng, who's still beaming at them.</p><p>"...A long story," he finishes awkwardly.</p><p>Harry gives him a look that's both curious and wary at the same time.</p><p> </p><p>"Lemme get those tokens for you! I'll be right back!!!" Siileng says before zooming away as quickly as he'd appeared.</p><p>Harry stares at the space where Siileng had been. </p><p>"He's... quite the character," he says slowly.</p><p>Kim sighs. "You have to be, to run a place like this," he says.</p><p> </p><p>They walk around the arcade for a while, and Kim watches Harry scrutinize their surroundings: the faces of the patrons, the names of the machines, the gaudy, overstimulating decor. He has the uncanny feeling that the other man is taking mental snapshots of everything and filing them away in a secret compartment within his mind, where he can draw them out later and examine them more closely.</p><p> </p><p>Harry's studying a Man-of-Hjemdall-themed pinball machine when Siileng pops up again. </p><p>"Here ya go, detective!" Siileng says, shoving a pouch full of tokens into Harry's hands. "It's two tokens per game, and each token's worth two reál, so you really got a wild deal today!"</p><p>Then, to Kim's horror and Harry's delight, Siileng fires finger guns at them.</p><p> </p><p>"Woah, better put away those big boys, my friend," Harry says with a grin. "Or we might have a...shoot-out---" he says, pulling out his own finger guns, "---on our hands!"</p><p>As Siileng and Harry spend the next few seconds having a finger-gun duel, Kim wonders whether heaven was punishing him for being such an evil person.  </p><p> </p><p><em>I'm so, so sorry for everything that I've done </em>, he sighs up to whatever deity might be listening. <em>Now please have mercy on my poor soul and make them stop.</em></p><p> </p><p>Lucky for him, divine intervention comes in the form of Annette, who bounds up to their little trio with a cheeky grin on her face.</p><p>"Oh! Hi, Mr. Siileng," she says. </p><p>"Annette! You met the detective yet?" Siileng says, after inflicting a fatal headshot on poor Harry.</p><p>"Yes! I just got him a present, actually," Annette says, and Kim notices that she seems to be hiding something behind her back.</p><p> </p><p>Harry resurrects from the dead and perks up. "A present?"</p><p>Annette nods. "Can you use your detective skills to guess what it is?" she asks him mischievously.</p><p>Harry frowns at her. </p><p>Then, he glances over at Kim and wiggles his eyebrows.</p><p> </p><p>Kim frowns at him.</p><p>
  <em>What's he trying to say?</em>
</p><p>Harry wiggles his eyebrows some more.</p><p><em>If I had to guess...</em> Ace says.</p><p>
  <em>I think he wants us to tell him what Annette's hiding behind her back. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>As sneakily as he can, Kim sidles up to Annette and peers over her back.</p><p>Then, he looks at Harry and points to his own head.</p><p> </p><p>Harry winks at him, and Kim feels his ears turn warm again.</p><p>"Why, young lady," Harry tells Annette in a booming voice. "Thank you for bringing me my detective hat!"</p><p>While Annette and Siileng gasp in awe and surprise, Kim innocently moves back to where he was standing beside Harry.</p><p> </p><p>"Is it really a hat, Annette???" Siileng asks.</p><p>"Yes, it is!" Annette confirms, whipping out a brown, battered fedora hat from behind her.</p><p>"That's amazing!!!" Siileng exclaims, firing his finger guns in the air again.</p><p> </p><p>Chuckling, Harry walks over to Annette and takes the hat from her hands. "Wow," he says. "This looks exactly like something that Dick Mullen would wear."</p><p>Then, with deliberate slowness, he lowers the hat on his head and crowns himself with it. </p><p>Annette and Siileng simultaneously go, "Wooooaaaaah," in quiet, awed voices.</p><p>Meanwhile, Kim is having a very, <em>very</em> difficult time keeping a straight face.</p><p> </p><p>"Hey, Kim," Harry says with a winning smile. "How do I look?"</p><p> </p><p><em>It does make him look more like a detective,</em> Kim admits.</p><p><em>He looks like a fool,</em> Ace mutters.</p><p><em>We can't say that,</em> Kim retorts. <em>That would hurt his feelings. </em></p><p>Ace gapes at him. <em>Y</em><em>ou're worried about hurting his feelings??? </em></p><p> </p><p>"I think you look dashing, detective," Kim says with a small smile. </p><p>"Yeah, dashing! The ladies would be swooning all over ya!" Siileng tells Harry.</p><p> </p><p>At that, Harry gives Kim a look that clearly conveys that right now, he's only interested in making one person swoon...</p><p>Kim coughs into his fist and looks away.</p><p> </p><p>"Oh, are those tokens, detective?" Annette says, pointing at the pouch that Harry's still holding. "We should go and play some games!"</p><p>"Great idea, Annette!" Siileng says. "I gotta head back to the office now, so I'll leave you in charge of our guests here, okay?"</p><p>Annette gives him an eager nod, and Siileng fires one last shot at Kim and Harry with his finger guns before jogging away.</p><p> </p><p>With the detective hat still perched on his head, Harry jangles the pouch of tokens in his hand and looks over at Kim.</p><p>"Is it okay if we play a few rounds?" he asks. </p><p> </p><p><em>He knows how much we hate pinball</em>, Kim realizes, mildly touched by Harry's consideration. <em>And he won't play if we don't want to</em>. </p><p><em>And we don't want to</em>, Ace says.</p><p>
  <em>Right?</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Kim chews his lip. </p><p>Annette looks at him with pleading eyes.</p><p>"Please, Mr. Kim?" she says, clasping her hands in front of her.</p><p> </p><p>Then, since the universe is conspiring against him today, Harry looks at him with pleading eyes too. </p><p>"Yeah, Kim," he says, mirroring Annette's clasped hands. "Please?"</p><p> </p><p>In the face of this devastating, dual assault, Kim's iron willpower crumbles into dust.</p><p> </p><p><em>Ah, fuck it</em>, Ace mutters. <em>Let's play some pinball.</em></p><p><em>Watch your language. There's a child here,</em> Kim berates him.</p><p> </p><p>"Okay," he sighs. "Let's go play some pinball."</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>"Fuck!" Harry hisses, as the pinball falls into the mouth of a dragon.</p><p>"Language," Kim says in a warning tone. </p><p> </p><p>"Oh, sorry," Harry says, glancing over apologetically at Annette.</p><p>"It's okay! I hear a lot of inappropriate words here from the other customers here all the time," Annette says, peering at the machine that Harry's currently trying, but failing, to beat. "My favorite one is Piss---"</p><p>Kim's hand shoots out and quickly covers Annette's mouth before she can finish the word.</p><p> </p><p>"Hey, Kim," Harry says as he stretches out his tired arms. "Why don't you try playing a game?"</p><p>Utterly distracted by the sight of Harry's shirt straining against his biceps, Kim fails to hear the question.</p><p> </p><p>"Uh. Elysium to Kim?" Harry asks, waving a hand in front of Kim's face. </p><p>Kim shakes himself out of his stupor. "Sorry. Did you say something?"</p><p>"He asked if you wanted to play a game," Annette supplies helpfully.</p><p>"Yeah," Harry says. He raises up two tokens. "We're down to our last two tokens, and you haven't played anything yet."</p><p> </p><p>Kim is ready with a flat-out refusal when all of a sudden, Annette unleashes her puppy-dog eyes on him again.</p><p>"Please, Mr. Kim? You're so good at it! You <em>have</em> to show off your skills to the detective," she says.</p><p> </p><p>Harry quirks an eyebrow. "He's good at it?" </p><p>Annette nods vigorously. "He's the best! No one's ever been able to beat his high score in Torque Dork Mania!"</p><p> </p><p>Kim winces. </p><p>"That was a long time ago---" he starts to say. </p><p>Then, Harry seals Kim's fate by giving him the puppy-dog eyes too.</p><p>"Kim," he says, "I'd <em>love</em> to see you play."</p><p> </p><p><em>This is just completely unfair,</em> Kim sighs to himself. </p><p><em>You want me to take over? </em>Ace asks, and Kim can already hear him cracking his knuckles in anticipation.</p><p><em>Be my guest,</em> Kim says.</p><p> </p><p>Without further ado, Ace strides towards Torque Dork Mania.</p><p>Standing in front of the infernal machine, he gives it a hateful glare.</p><p><em>We meet again,</em> he tells it.</p><p><em>Fuck you, man</em>, it replies. </p><p> </p><p>Ace grins. </p><p>Then, he pops the collar of his bomber jacket...</p><p>Cracks his knuckles....</p><p>And cracks his neck. </p><p> </p><p>From the corner of his eye, Ace sees the detective's jaw drop to the floor.</p><p>He snaps his fingers and points at the machine's coin slot.</p><p>"Tokens," he says.</p><p> </p><p>"Go go go!" Annette says excitedly as she pushes Harry towards Ace. </p><p>Gulping, Harry inserts the two tokens into the machine.</p><p>He steps away---</p><p> </p><p>But Ace grabs him by the tie and pulls him in. </p><p>"Eyes on me, Detective," he whispers into Harry's ear.</p><p> </p><p>But to Ace's surprise, the detective doesn't whimper or stiffen against him.</p><p>Instead, Harry draws back---</p><p>And gives him a look so full of primal hunger that he's tempted to lean in and---</p><p> </p><p><em>Please control yourself</em>, Kim sighs. <em>There's a child watching. </em> </p><p>Ace huffs. </p><p><em>Killjoy</em>.</p><p> </p><p>So instead, he shoves Harry away and braces his arms on the machine. </p><p>"R-R-R-R-READY, T-T-T-T-ORQUE D-D-D-D-D-DORKS???????" it shouts out.</p><p> </p><p>Ace grins.</p><p>"Hell yeah," he says.</p><p> </p><p>Then, the ball shoots out.</p><p>And Ace beats his own high score.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><strong>ELECTROCHEMISTRY</strong> [Godly: Success] - Oh.</p><p>My.</p><p>Fucking.</p><p><em>God</em>.</p><p> </p><p><strong>LOGIC</strong> [Godly: Failure] - Half of your cerebral cortex is gone. You're going to have to think with your lungs now.</p><p><strong>ELECTROCHEMISTRY</strong> - Or with your---</p><p><strong>VOLITION</strong> [Godly: Failure] - If this man told you to jump into the ocean and swim to Graad, you would do it <em>and</em> you'd swim back and do it all over again. </p><p> </p><p><strong>AUTHORITY</strong> [Godly: Success] - He's challenging you to dominate him.</p><p>To make him yield.</p><p>To make him <em>beg</em>.</p><p> </p><p><strong>ELECTROCHEMISTRY </strong>- Now go to the nearest alleyway and <em>wreck</em> this beautiful creature---</p><p><strong>HALF-LIGHT</strong> [Challenging: Success] - Not if he wrecks you first.</p><p> </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - Your scrambled thoughts are abruptly interrupted by a loud cheer.</p><p><strong>ANNETTE</strong> - "You did it, Kim!!!!" she says, raising her hand in the air with excitement. "Ace's High!"</p><p><strong>KIM KITSURAGI</strong> - He smiles at her and slaps her hand with his. "Ace's High!"</p><p>Then, he looks at you.</p><p> </p><p><strong>VISUAL CALCULUS</strong> [Legendary: Success] - His pupils are dilated. His breathing is rapid. His face is flushed.</p><p><strong>PERCEPTION (SIGHT)</strong> - A bead of sweat trails down the side of his face, and you want nothing more than to--</p><p> </p><p><strong>COMPOSURE</strong> [Godly: Success] - Time for me to take over!</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - "That was amazing, Kim," you manage to say, and you're painfully aware of how ragged your voice sounds.</p><p><strong>KIM KITSURAGI</strong> - He coughs into his fist.</p><p><strong>COMPOSURE</strong> [Medium: Success] - He's not capable of blushing, but the very tips of his ears are turning more and more red by the second.</p><p><strong>KIM KITSURAGI</strong> - "Thank you, Detective," he says, still not meeting your gaze. </p><p> </p><p><strong>ANNETTE</strong> - As the seconds tick by, she starts throwing confused looks between you and Kim. </p><p>"Uhm. Detective?" she asks, waving a hand in front of your face. "Hello?"</p><p><strong>VOLITION</strong> [Godly: Failure] - You are completely unable to look away from Kim.</p><p><strong>CONCEPTUALIZATION</strong> [Legendary: Success] - Behind him, the glittering lights of a pinball machine light up, casting a broken, fluorescent halo around his head...</p><p> </p><p><strong>PAIN THRESHOLD</strong> [Legendary: Failure] - All of a sudden, someone steps very, very hard on your big toe.</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - "Ow!" you yelp. "What was that for???"</p><p><strong>ANNETTE</strong> - She crosses her arms and frowns at you. "You've been staring at Mr. Kim for the past minute. It was getting rather creepy," she says.</p><p><strong>KIM KITSURAGI</strong> - He reaches over and ruffles her hair. </p><p>"It's okay, Annette," he says. "I'm sure the detective was just...impressed by what he saw."</p><p> </p><p><strong>ELECTROCHEMISTRY</strong> - "Incredibly aroused" would have been more accurate.</p><p><strong>HAND-EYE COORDINATION</strong> - He handled that machine with such astounding skill that he must have been playing pinball for <em>years</em>. </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - But...he said that he hates the game. </p><p><strong>LOGIC</strong> [Medium: Success] - No one can get that good at pinball without developing some sort of traumatic reaction to it. </p><p> </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - "You must have practiced for a long time to be this good." </p><p><strong>KIM KITSURAGI</strong> - He sighs. "Far too long," he mutters under his breath. </p><p><b>SUGGESTION</b> - You might be able to get the story out of him over lunch later.</p><p><strong>ENDURANCE</strong> - Speaking of lunch, didn't that Samaran guy mention some free ice cream? You've worked up a pretty good appetite right now, and Kim looks like he needs a snack too.</p><p><strong>ELECTROCHEMISTRY </strong>- And it might help you cool off, if you catch my drift.</p><p> </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - Good idea.</p><p>"Anyone up for some ice cream?" </p><p><strong>ANNETTE</strong> - Her eyes light up.</p><p>"Ice cream?" she asks with barely contained excitement. "From Mr. Hypercarnivore?"</p><p><strong>KIM KITSURAGI</strong> - Kim nods at her. "Siileng said that the detective and I can get free ice cream today. But I'm sure we can swipe an extra one for our tour guide," he says. </p><p><strong>EMPATHY</strong> [Easy: Success] - There's genuine fondness in his eyes. He really cares about this girl...</p><p>I'm not lying, by the way.</p><p> </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - You can't help but smile as you look at Kim and Annette. </p><p>Don't worry, Em.</p><p>I believe you.</p><p> </p><p><strong>ANNETTE</strong> - "Alright, let's go to Mr. Hypercarnivore!" she says. </p><p>Before you know it, she's already tugging you and Kim down the aisle of machines and towards the right side of the arcade.</p><p><strong>KIM KITSURAGI</strong> - As he trails after Annette, his shoulder brushes against yours---</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - And you suddenly realize that you haven't felt this happy in a long, long while.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>"So," Harry says, after sipping some cherry cola from his Bling Bling Bonanza cup. "Mr. Hypercarnivore."</p><p>Kim gives him an apologetic look. "Sorry about that. I should've warned you about him."</p><p>Harry laughs, and the sound of it is enough to make Kim smile.</p><p>"Nah," Harry says, still chuckling. "It did my heart good to get a shock like that."</p><p> </p><p>They're sitting on one of the benches that line the waterfront outside of the pinball arcade, enjoying the cool sea breeze and allowing their stomachs to digest the fabulous lunch that they just had. Shortly after Harry's first encounter with the bear-shaped refrigerator named Mr. Hypercarnivore, one of the arcade employees conveyed the message that Siileng had lunch prepared for them at the staff breakroom. The lunch turned out to be a small buffet, and by the end of it, Kim, Harry, and Annette were thoroughly stuffed and happy.</p><p> </p><p>"You should drop by again tomorrow, Detective!" Annette told Harry as she accompanied them back to the entrance. "I can teach you how to play Suzerainty, and then you can challenge Mr. Kim!"</p><p>"Suzerainty?" Harry asked her. "Isn't that a board game?"</p><p>Annette nodded. "It's <em>the</em> board game," she said with the conviction of a dedicated fangirl. "It forces you to think critically, and with your detective skills, I'm sure you'll pick it up in no time!"</p><p>Kim watched their exchange with quiet fondness. </p><p> </p><p><em>You're getting attached</em>, Ace warned him. <em>This was a fucking trap after all. </em></p><p><em>Don't worry about it,</em> Kim said. <em>The detective's just as distracted as we are.</em></p><p> </p><p>After waving goodbye to Annette, Kim and Harry wandered around aimlessly for a few minutes before plopping themselves onto the bench where they're seated now.</p><p>"I like Annette," Harry says. "She's a good girl."</p><p>Kim smiles. "Yes, she is."</p><p> </p><p>Harry stays silent for a while. </p><p>Then, he gives Kim a mischievous grin.</p><p>"Guess we're alone now," he suddenly says.</p><p> </p><p>It takes Kim a second to realize what he's talking about.</p><p>"Are you going to tell me how you deduced those things about Annette?" he asks.</p><p>Harry nods. "But why don't you try it first? How do you think I did it?" He drapes an arm over the back of the bench, and Kim is painfully aware of how close Harry is...</p><p> </p><p>Ace snaps his fingers at him.</p><p>
  <em>Focus. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Kim hums thoughtfully and thinks about it for a second. </p><p>"The bike was easy," he eventually says. "You saw the rip in her leggings, and the band-aid on her knee."</p><p>Harry gives him an encouraging smile. "Yes, go on."</p><p>Kim frowns. "I'm not sure how you figured out her late-night reading habit, though."</p><p>Harry taps the corner of his own eye. "Her eyes looked strained, and she didn't look like she was getting enough sleep. That, and her mentioning Dick Mullen."</p><p> </p><p>"And the cat? I'm guessing you saw the orange fur stuck on her jacket..."</p><p>"Exactly," Harry grins at him. </p><p>"But...how did you know that it was named Tibby?"</p><p> </p><p>"I read a fair amount of detective novels myself," Harry says. "And, as it turns out, Dick Mullen has a pet cat."</p><p>"Named Tibby?" Kim guesses.</p><p>"Actually, no. That was just a lucky guess," Harry admits.</p><p> </p><p>They stay silent for a while.</p><p>Kim struggles to stifle the laughter that threatens to burst out of him.</p><p>Harry doesn't even try.</p><p> </p><p>By the time they recover, Harry has tears running down his face and Kim's face hurts from grinning so hard.</p><p>"I can't---I can't believe I actually got away with that," Harry gasps out. </p><p>"Me neither," Kim tells him. "That guess took a lot of guts, Detective."</p><p> </p><p>A companionable silence gradually falls between them, and suddenly, Kim realizes that he can't remember the last time that he just...sat with someone like this.</p><p>Then, Harry breaks the silence by asking him a question that he should have seen coming from a mile away.</p><p>"Hey, Kim," Harry says. "Can I try deducing something about you?"</p><p> </p><p>Kim blinks. </p><p>"What?" </p><p>Harry smiles at him playfully. "I want to deduce something about you. Just like what I did with Annette," he says.</p><p> </p><p>Kim thinks about it.</p><p>Meanwhile, Ace carefully composes Kim's expression into an unreadable mask and pulls down the shutters on his mind. </p><p> </p><p>"Alright, Harry," Kim says, leaning back on the bench and making himself comfortable. "Let's see you try."</p><p>Suddenly, Harry peers at Kim's face with such intense focus that, even with his defenses firmly in place, Kim feels utterly exposed.</p><p>He feels Harry's eyes lingering on the bare skin of his arms, on his neck, on his lips...</p><p> </p><p>"You're an orphan," Harry suddenly says.</p><p>Kim freezes.</p><p>"You're an orphan," Harry repeats, his voice quiet and low. "You were born here in Revachol---"</p><p> </p><p><em>Make him stop,</em> Ace whispers. </p><p> </p><p>"---but you lost your parents in the Revolution," Harry continues. "You were adopted by your current family, and---" </p><p> </p><p><em><strong>Make him stop</strong>,</em> Ace hisses. </p><p> </p><p>Harry pauses. </p><p> </p><p>In that short moment of silence, Kim becomes aware of the frantic thudding of his own heart. </p><p> </p><p>"You've...had a hard life," Harry says, his eyes are filled with so much pain and kindness that Kim wonders if Harry somehow knows about his family.</p><p>About the unthinkable choices that he’s had to make because of them.</p><p>And about his beautiful, impossible dream of living a normal, boring life among these good, generous people.</p><p> </p><p>"You've had such a hard life, Kim," Harry says again.</p><p> </p><p><strong><em>Get away!!!</em> </strong>Ace shouts.</p><p> </p><p>But Kim is frozen in place.</p><p> </p><p>He doesn't move.</p><p>He <em>can't</em> move.</p><p>Even when Harry reaches over and takes his hand. </p><p>Even when Harry gently kisses his knuckles.</p><p> </p><p>Kim doesn't move a muscle.</p><p> </p><p>Because he's afraid that if he does---</p><p>Then he might end up telling Harry everything. </p><p>And Kim has sacrificed far too much to let that happen.</p><p> </p><p>"I want to see you again," Harry says.</p><p>"What?" Kim whispers.</p><p>"I want to see you again," Harry repeats. "Tomorrow."</p><p> </p><p>He squeezes Kim's hand.</p><p>"Please," he says.</p><p>And it takes Kim a moment to realize that it wasn't a question.</p><p>It was a plea.</p><p> </p><p>"Why?" Kim whispers. </p><p>
  <em>Why do you want to see me?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Why do you care so much?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Why am I so afraid of you?</em>
</p><p> </p><p>The smile that Harry gives him is small, sad, and infinitely gentle.</p><p>"Because you're a good person, Kim," he says.</p><p> </p><p>And Harry says it with so much conviction that Kim almost believes him.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <em> Why did you say yes? </em>
</p><p>Ignoring Ace's voice, Kim trudges up the stairwell and fishes out his keys from his pocket. </p><p> </p><p><em> Why did you say yes? </em> Ace asks again, his voice louder and more insistent.</p><p>Kim shoves his key into the lock.</p><p><em> Because I want to see him again too </em>, he finally admits.</p><p> </p><p>He opens his apartment door---</p><p>And freezes.</p><p> </p><p>"Hello, brother."</p><p>For a moment, Kim just stands at his doorway. </p><p>Then, Ace steps in and glares at his youngest sibling.</p><p>"Get the fuck off my couch, Joker," he says, closing he closes the door behind him.</p><p> </p><p>They giggle and snuggle deeper into Ace's couch.</p><p>“Aw, what kind of greeting is that?” they say petulantly. “First time we see each other in two years, and this is the kind of welcome that I get…”</p><p> </p><p>Ace takes off his jacket and hangs it behind his door.</p><p>“You should have told me that you were coming to visit.” </p><p>“And ruin the surprise?” Joker lazily stretches out on the couch, and the grin that they give him is as cold and sharp as a knife. “Now where would the fun be in that?”</p><p> </p><p><em> Don’t fall for their tricks </em>, Kim says.</p><p>
  <em> Find out what they want. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“What do you want, kid?” Ace asks wearily. “I’ve just had a long day, and I don’t have time for your bullshit.”</p><p>Joker finally gets up from the couch and walks over to stand in front of him.</p><p>“I heard about what happened,” they say. “And so did Jack.”</p><p> </p><p>Ace stiffens. </p><p>“He’s on his way here,” Joker says with obvious glee. “He’ll be here in around three days, and he’s bringing his friends with him.”</p><p>Ace remains silent.</p><p>“How did you find out?” he asks them quietly.</p><p>Joker tuts and shakes their head. “Did you really think you could keep it under wraps? Even if Jack doesn’t kill you, Father will.” They shrug. “It’s just a matter of time.”</p><p> </p><p>Ace closes his eyes. </p><p>Then, he takes a deep breath.</p><p>“And you?” he asks, his voice low and dangerous. “Are you here to kill me too?”</p><p>Joker gasps.</p><p>“Brother,” they say, clutching their chest in mock horror. “I would <em> never </em>.”</p><p>Ace gives them a deadpan stare.</p><p>“...Okay, maybe I would, if I could. But we both know that you’re way stronger than me.” Joker shrugs. “So I figured I’d just let Jack and Father do all the hard work.”</p><p><br/><em> Classic Joker, </em> Kim says. <em> Sneaking around in the shadows and rejoicing in the chaos. </em></p><p> </p><p>"And what makes you think I won't kill you right now?" Ace asks.</p><p>Joker scoffs at him. "Please. Jack might think that you killed King and Queen, but I know better."</p><p>They peer up at his face with wide, bright eyes. </p><p>"Out of all of us, you're the only one who isn't a born killer," they say quietly.</p><p> </p><p>Ace stares at them.</p><p>Humming a slow tune under their breath, they walk past him and head for the door.</p><p>"Wait," Ace says.</p><p> </p><p>They pause by the door.</p><p>"Why did you tell me this?" he asks. </p><p> </p><p>They blink at him owlishly.</p><p>Then, they shrug.</p><p>"Because you're still my brother," they say. </p><p> </p><p>When the door finally closes behind them, Kim staggers over to his couch.</p><p>Then, he sits down...</p><p>And buries his face in his hands.</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Joker is just one person, but their preferred pronoun is they/them.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Interlude One: The Tiger</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Titus remembers when Ace arrived in Martinaise as if it were yesterday.</p><p>It had been a Friday. He remembers that because he and the boys were getting ready to head off to the Whirling for their weekly karaoke night when the cars drove into the harbor.</p><p>There were three of them---black, sleek, heavily tinted LUM Chaleurs that Titus had only seen during his rugby days, when they would pick up and drop off rich pricks like team owners and gambling lords from the stadium. It was uncanny to see them in the harbor---these beautiful, elegant vehicles surrounded by rusty industrial containers and filthy dockworkers, most of whom would probably die happy if they could just lay a finger on one of those babes.</p><p>They entered the gates in single file, like soldiers marching up to form a firing squad, and parked right in front of the steps leading to Evrart's office. Titus and his men kept their distance, because heck, none of them were stupid enough to approach that obvious display of wealth and power.</p><p>So they watched. And they waited. </p><p> </p><p>Their patience and curiosity were rewarded when six goons emerged from the cars, two from each Chaleur. They were all dressed in the same uniform: black suits, black shoes, shades, earpieces. They looked like hired muscle--the professional kind. The kind who got hired by people with loads of cash. The kind who were trained to kill, and who were able to do it without getting a single speck of blood on their damn suits.</p><p>Now, Titus was proud of his boys, and he knew that they were pretty capable of kicking some ass. But he had to admit that they were preschoolers compared to these guys.</p><p>He really, really hoped that Evrart wouldn't ask them to go toe-to-toe with this death squad.</p><p> </p><p>As the dockworkers watched, one of the goons went up to the first car, opened the rear door, and held it open for the figure that emerged from its dark, leather-lined depths. Titus craned his neck over the crowd, expecting to see a bigshot millionaire decked in gold chains and diamond rings, with a swagger in his step and a cigar between his teeth.</p><p>So when Ace stepped out instead, Titus stared at him for a full minute. </p><p> </p><p>"Titus," Glen whispered to him in awed disbelief. "Fucking head honcho's a chink binoclard."</p><p>"Don't let them hear you say that, Glen," Titus told him.</p><p> </p><p>But his mind couldn't process what he was seeing either. Standing at the open door of the car was a slender Seolite man who looked less of a gangster and more of an accountant. Just like his goons, he was dressed like an undertaker: black suit, black shoes, black leather gloves. The only difference was that he had a black trench coat draped over his shoulders, which made him look bulkier than he actually was. He was a full head shorter than most of his bodyguards, but despite that, Titus felt certain that among all of these goons, this man was the most dangerous one of them all. </p><p>There was just...something in the way that he carried himself that reminded Titus of a sheathed sword.</p><p>Sharp.</p><p>Polished.</p><p>Deadly. </p><p>It'd been a while since Titus had done any prizefighting, but if anyone had asked him to get into the ring with this man, he'd just say, "Hell, no," and sock that person in the gut for daring to ask him to do something as crazy as that.</p><p> </p><p>The Seolite man stood there for a moment and looked around. He didn't look like he was in a hurry, and contrary to Titus' expectations, he didn't scoff or turn his nose up at the squalor around him. </p><p>Instead, he just swept his gaze across the harbor, like a general studying the map of a battlefield.</p><p>Then his gaze landed on the dockworkers, and they all took an involuntary step back. </p><p> </p><p>When Titus was a little boy, his dad took him to the Revachol East Zoo to look at the tigers. He was disappointed to see that they were nothing like the tigers in his picture books. These were sad, scrawny-looking things with patches of fur missing from their hides, and it hurt to see these majestic creatures reduced to such a pathetic state. </p><p>But then one of the tigers looked straight at Titus, and its eyes glistened with such cold, intelligent hunger that Titus had gasped and grabbed his father's hand---</p><p> </p><p><em>A tiger</em>, Titus thought to himself as the Seolite man continued to look at them.</p><p>
  <em>This guy's a tiger. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Finally, to the crowd's collective relief, the man looked away and walked up to Evrart's office with two of his goons. The rest of his bodyguards stayed with the cars and stood at attention, obviously guarding the vehicles from the crowd's grubby hands.</p><p> </p><p>"Yo, Hardie," Eugene asked him. "What do you think this is about?"</p><p>Titus was about to shrug and tell Eugene that he had no clue when suddenly, Evrart's voice boomed through the harbor’s loudspeakers.</p><p>"Calling Titus Hardie," it said, "Titus Hardie, please come up to my office right this moment."</p><p> </p><p>All eyes turned to him.</p><p>Titus sighed.</p><p>"Shit," he muttered. </p><p> </p><p>"Want us to go in there with you?" Glen asked, and his face was so worried that Titus just had to give him a reassuring smile. </p><p>"Nah, I got this," he said with a confidence that he didn't feel. "The fat man probably just wants me to stand behind him and glower at those goons."</p><p><em>Not that it would work on them</em>, Titus admitted to himself. </p><p> </p><p>Glen didn't look convinced, but he backed off. "Okay, man. Just...give us a holler or something if you need back-up," he said.</p><p>"Thanks, Glen," Titus said, genuinely touched by his friend's concern. "Feel free to head in if you hear any screaming." He meant it as a joke, but the look of horror on Glen's face showed that he took it far more seriously than Titus thought he would.</p><p> </p><p>Putting on a brave face for his men, Titus walked past the goons guarding the cars and marched up the stairs. He tried to imagine being in the same room as the Seolite man, with his cold, predatory eyes and quiet, deadly air, and a shiver ran up his spine.</p><p>He knocked once on Evrart's door and let himself in.</p><p> </p><p>"Ah, Titus!" Evrart exclaimed from behind his desk. "So glad you can join us. Allow me to introduce our guests. This is Mr. Ace," he said, gesturing towards the Seolite man. "And he's here to discuss a...partnership with us."</p><p>Titus gave their guests a silent nod of greeting, which none of them returned. He was grateful for that, though. He wouldn't have known what to do if one of them actually acted like a normal human being and said hello. </p><p>As he made his way to Evrart's side, Titus was immediately reminded of how much he hated being in this office. The ceiling was so low that he almost brushed it with the top of his head, and the clutter made it seem smaller than it actually was. It felt like a fucking cage, and Titus never felt more trapped and claustrophobic in it than he did now.</p><p> </p><p>When he finally got to his assigned glowering position behind Evrart, the first thing that Titus noticed was that Mr. Ace was sitting in the chair.</p><p>And by that, he meant the Torture Chair. </p><p> </p><p>Everyone at the docks knew about the Torture Chair. It was the stuff of legends. If you messed up and got on the Evrarts' bad side, you get called in for a "chat" in their office. Said chat turned out to be an hour-long lecture on the benefits of Union membership, which wouldn't have been so bad if you weren't sitting in that fucking chair. By the end of that hellish hour, you'd be lucky if you just ended up not being able to walk straight for a week. Titus knew of a few unlucky souls whose backsides got chewed up so badly by that chair that all of them qualified for the disability allowance that the municipal government handed out to the handicapped.</p><p>So given all that, it was pretty understandable that Titus was completely taken aback when he saw Ace seated comfortably in the torture chair.</p><p>Seated <em> comfortably </em>.</p><p>On the <em> torture chair </em>.</p><p> </p><p>Crossing his legs, Ace leaned back in the fucking chair and took out a cigarette from the breastpocket of his jacket. </p><p>One of his goons automatically stepped forward and lit his cigarette for him. </p><p>"Are you ready to begin, Mr. Claire?" Ace said around a mouthful of smoke, and his voice was so calm and quiet that once again, Titus marveled at how he could possibly be immune from the excruciating effects of the chair.</p><p>"Of course, Mr. Ace! I'm all ears, and can I just say that it's<em> such</em> an honor to have a member of the Mazda's family seated within my humble office," Evrart had said in his slimiest voice. "I've heard so much about you and your siblings, and---"</p><p>"Cut the crap, Evrart," Ace said, tapping ash off his cigarette. "I'm here for business, not for tea and biscuits."</p><p>The shit-eating grin on Evrart's face froze.</p><p>And even though he was still terrified of Ace, Titus definitely approved of how this gangster put Evrart in his fucking place.</p><p> </p><p>For the better part of the next hour, Titus stood at his post and witnessed the most cutthroat negotiation that he'd ever seen. From what he could understand, Ace and his family wanted to build a pinball arcade in the Doomed Commercial Area, which was absolutely baffling given that the place was notorious for sending every business that tried to set up shop there straight into bankruptcy. </p><p>But---as Evrart eventually said in much more pleasant terms---if the Mazda really wanted to do it, then it was their funeral.</p><p> </p><p>Then, Ace brought up his plans of hiring local workers to build the arcade. </p><p>"I understand that you have a Union in place," Ace said, "which is why I wanted to course this request through you, Mr. Claire."</p><p>"Why, of course," Evrart replied, appearing to be honored by Ace's recognition of the pecking order in the harbor. "I'd be happy to ask my people what they think about your proposal. We're a democracy here, you see, and while I do have the title of Union Leader, I only speak on behalf of---"</p><p> </p><p>"Mr. Hardie," Ace said, interrupting Evrart's word vomit and shifting his attention to Titus. "How would your fellow workers react to this idea?"</p><p>Titus blinked. </p><p>Evrart gaped.</p><p>Ace smoked and patiently waited for Titus' answer.</p><p>Steeling his nerves, Titus stood up straighter and cleared his throat. "I think everyone'll be okay with it," he said, painfully aware of Evrart's beady eyes on him. "There hasn't been much work coming from Wild Pines lately, so the men are itching for something to put their backs into. And besides," he shrugged, "we always need some extra cash on the side."</p><p> </p><p>Ace looked pleased with his answer, and the thought that he'd somehow managed to please this quiet, dangerous man was both baffling and thrilling at the same time.</p><p><em>Focus, Hardie</em>, Titus told himself. <em>This ain't the time to let your thoughts wander</em>. </p><p>"Thank you, Titus," Evrart said, obviously displeased that Ace cut him off earlier. "Your opinion is duly noted. Now, as to the matter of the profits of this pinball arcade, Mr. Ace..."</p><p>"The Union gets 10 percent of the profits," Ace said coolly. </p><p>A greedy glint shone in Evrart's eyes. </p><p>"25 percent," he said.</p><p>Ace's face remained impassive. "15."</p><p>"20," Evrart said, without missing a beat.</p><p>"Deal."</p><p> </p><p>Evrart blinked.</p><p>Titus blinked.</p><p> </p><p>Ace’s lips quirked up in silent victory.</p><p>And that's when Titus realized that Ace had been aiming for the 20-percent cut all along, and that he'd just started with a ridiculously low percentage to bait Evrart into saying it himself.</p><p>It was subtle. Smart. Gutsy.</p><p>And it was a proverbial sucker punch to Evrart Claire's piggy lil' face.</p><p> </p><p>"I---" It was the first time that Titus had ever seen Evrart that flustered, and he was secretly glad to see the Union boss at a loss for words for once. "It's. A deal then," Evrart managed to say through gritted teeth. </p><p>Ace nodded. </p><p>"Of course," he said, exhaling a long plume of smoke. "We expect a cut in the docks' profits as well."</p><p> </p><p>The silence that ensued was so loud that you could've heard a pin drop.</p><p> </p><p>"Excuse me?" Evrart asked quietly.</p><p>Ace looked at him straight in the eye. "We were thinking of 20 percent, just to match the cut that you're getting from the arcade," he said. "But if it's true that you're going through leaner times, then we're willing to settle for 15."</p><p>Titus noticed that it wasn't a question. Heck, it wasn't even a request.</p><p>It sounded like Ace was just <em> informing </em> Evrart of what was going to happen, and he said it in such a way that it seemed like he was actually doing the other man a favor by being courteous enough to tell him how things stand. </p><p>Needless to say, Evrart looked like he was ready to start frothing in the mouth. </p><p> </p><p>Meanwhile, Ace looked like he was genuinely enjoying himself.</p><p>"That's...an <em> interesting </em> proposal, Mr. Ace," Evrart eventually managed to say in a strained voice. </p><p>Ace blinked. "I'm sorry, Mr. Claire. I didn't seem to make myself clear," he said, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. "It wasn’t a proposal," he said, and his tone spoke volumes. </p><p> </p><p>At that moment, Titus could have sworn that the temperature in the office plummeted to somewhere below freezing.</p><p>A bead of cold sweat trailed down his nape.</p><p>Evrart stared at Ace with barely contained hatred in his eyes.</p><p>Ace calmly stared back.</p><p> </p><p>Then, Evrart broke the silence.</p><p>"Very well, Mr. Ace," he said. "It looks like we'll have to settle our differences the old-fashioned way."</p><p> </p><p>Titus sighed to himself. </p><p>He’d been hoping they <em> wouldn’t </em>have to resort to the old-fashioned way at all.</p><p> </p><p>"Oh?" Ace asked, leaning back on the Torture Chair. "And what exactly would that entail, Mr. Claire?"</p><p> </p><p>"We fight for it," Evrart said with barely contained glee. "I won't do it myself, of course, given my tenuous health condition. But I'll send my strongest man and make him fight against yours. Hand-to-hand combat. No tricks. Victory through knock-out."</p><p>Ace's face remained impassive. "And the stakes?"</p><p>Evrart grinned. "If you win, you get a 30-percent cut from the docks. But if I win---" he leaned forward and steepled his fingers under his chin. "The Union gets 40 percent of the arcade's profits, and you don't get anything from us."</p><p> </p><p>Titus gaped at the back of Evrart's head, utterly shocked by how unfair those stakes were.</p><p>"Hey Boss," he started to say. "I don't think that's---"</p><p>Evrart cut him off. "So what do you say, Mr. Ace? Do we have a deal?" he asked, extending a fat, pudgy hand towards Ace.</p><p> </p><p>The gangster contemplated Evrart's hand for a moment.</p><p>Meanwhile, his cigarette smouldered gently between his lips...</p><p>Then, he leaned forward.</p><p>And took Evrart's hand.</p><p> </p><p>"Deal," Ace said.</p><p>And Titus watched as the victorious smile on Evrart's face crumpled into a wince as Ace shook his hand with a crushing grip.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>"Evrart said what???!!!"</p><p>"When's the fight gonna be????"</p><p>"Who's Evrart gonna sic on that yellow monkey???"</p><p>Titus grit his teeth and cupped a hand to his mouth. </p><p>"Pipe down, people!" he hollered at the crowd of excited dockworkers surrounding him. "Evrart wants us to watch the fight. It'll be in two hours, so if anyone wants to go home and take a leak or something, you'd better do it now."</p><p> </p><p>"Are you gonna fight, Titus?!" Glen shouted from beside him. "You gotta show that binoclard and his goons that no one messes with the Union---"</p><p>Sighing, Titus turned to face Glen. "I'm not fighting, Glen," he said wearily. "And before you get any funny ideas, no, <em>you</em> don't get to fight Ace's goons either."</p><p>"Ace?" Fat Angus asked from somewhere behind the crowd. "Who's Ace?"</p><p>"The bino---I mean, the gangster," Titus said. "Anyway, I'm pretty sure that Evrart's gonna sic Measurehead on whoever Ace picks---"</p><p> </p><p>The crowd released a collective gasp before exploding with excited chatter.</p><p>"Oh man, Measurehead's going to<em> kill</em> that guy---!!!!"</p><p>"Can you imagine what Measurehead's gonna say when he sees the chink??? He'll probably go, 'YOU ARE UNWORTHY TO BE IN MY PRESENCE, MITOCHONDRIAL HAPLOID---"</p><p> </p><p>Recognizing that he had totally lost everyone's attention, Titus just gave up and let them talk. He'd been asked to deliver the message to the rest of the Union, and he'd done just that. So maybe now, he could try and make sense of that bizarre meeting...</p><p>"Hardie Boys! Gather around!" he shouted.</p><p> </p><p>Once everyone was there, he led them to a more secluded area of the dock and gave them a run-down of what happened in Evrart's office.</p><p>"No way," Shanky whispered afterwards. "He sat in the fuckin' Torture Chair and didn't feel a thing????!!!!!"</p><p>"Fuckin' chair chewed through my ass a month ago!" Alain exclaimed, clutching said ass in dismay. "Couldn't walk straight for a week!"</p><p> </p><p>Titus shrugged. "I don't know how he did it, but he did it," he said. "But wait, did you guys just miss the part where I said that he screwed with Evrart so hard that the fat man practically squealed?"</p><p>Eugene nodded solemnly. "Never heard of Evrart getting all flustered like that," he said. "Usually just talks his way outta trouble. Strange of him to pick a fight with a stranger he just met today."</p><p>Titus frowned. "Yeah...Evrart mentioned something about Ace being part of some family. The Mazda's or something."</p><p> </p><p>A hushed silence descended upon the group.</p><p>"M-Mazda?" Shanky said in a squeaky, terrified voice.</p><p>Titus blinked at him. "Yeah, that's what Evrart said---"</p><p>"Fuck."</p><p>They all turned towards Theo, and Titus was shocked to see how pale the old man's face had become.</p><p> </p><p>"...They bad news, Theo?" he asked quietly. </p><p>Theo remained silent for a few moments.</p><p>"Evrart better know what he's doing," he eventually said, in a low and quiet voice. "Or else we're all fucked."</p><p> </p><p>And for the first time that night, a jolt of real fear stabbed through Titus' heart.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>The fight was set to start at 8 o'clock, but everyone arrived an hour early. They'd set up a makeshift ring in the middle of the docks using some industrial rope and a few crates, and the air was thrumming with excitement, anticipation, and the heady scent of bloodlust. It reminded Titus of the adrenaline rush that would surge through him right before a slugfest, and it sent his heart pumping and his fists itching for a good fight.</p><p>The other Hardie boys were milling around, each doing what they did best---Shanky was collecting wagers in Fat Angus' muffler hat while the big man himself trailed after him and took note of the bets; Alain went around distributing beers; Eugene was entertaining a few folks with a song from his guitar; Theo was sitting in front, all quiet and brooding; and Glen was riling everyone up and leading them in a cheer that had one too many cusses in it for Titus to chant along.</p><p>All in all, it was turning out to be a wild Friday night, and the party hadn't even started yet.</p><p> </p><p>"How're the bets looking, Angus?" Titus asked as his friend lumbered towards him.</p><p>Angus shrugged. "Most of the guys are rooting for Measurehead, but some of 'em want to see his racially supreme ass kicked," he said. "What about you, Titus? Who do you think'll win?"</p><p>Titus was about to say, "Measurehead, of course." </p><p>But then, he remembered the look of quiet confidence on Ace's face when he shook Evrart's hand, and suddenly, he wasn't so sure that the Measurehead would win anymore.</p><p> </p><p>Before he could answer Angus, an ear-splitting cheer erupted from their right, and the crowd parted to let Measurehead through.</p><p>He was just as tough-looking as Titus remembered: Absurdly tall, with a body that seemed carved straight out of a block of granite. His head and torso were covered in tattoos, which coiled around his muscles like venomous snakes. Two of his babes clung to his arms like monkeys on a tree, and behind him, Evrart waddled along like a malicious, dumpy mascot. There was a huge grin on the fat man's face, and Titus knew that he was dying to see Measurehead crush Ace's champion to a pulp.</p><p> </p><p>Speaking of Ace...</p><p>Titus looked over to the other side of the ring, and almost jumped in surprise.</p><p>Right there, sitting on one of the crates with his legs splayed out and his elbows resting on his knees, was Ace. He was flanked by the same two goons who were with him in Evrart's office, and all three of them looked like they'd been waiting there for the longest time for Measurehead to show up.</p><p>At first, the crowd was completely oblivious to Ace's presence. But as more and more people spotted him, startled gasps and whispers quickly traveled through the audience, with many of them standing on their tiptoes to gape at the three gangsters who seemed to have appeared out of nowhere.</p><p> </p><p>"Fuck," Glen said in an awed voice from beside Titus. "That guy a ghost or something?"</p><p>"I don't think so. He looks too solid to be a ghost," Angus replied.</p><p>Titus chose to remain silent and kept his eyes still firmly trained on Ace and his bodyguards.</p><p> </p><p>Ace's face was unreadable, and the floodlights surrounding the harbor glared off his glasses and made it impossible to see his eyes. But despite that, Titus couldn't help but feel that Ace was looking straight at Measurehead, as if he were sizing up his opponent with a cold, calculating gaze... </p><p>Once again, Titus remembered the hungry tiger in the zoo. </p><p>And he suddenly became very, very glad that he wasn't standing in Measurehead's place.</p><p> </p><p>"HAPLOGROUP O-M122," Measurehead boomed as he stepped into the ring. "CEASE THIS MADNESS AND CONCEDE YOUR DEFEAT IN THE FACE OF MY RACIAL SUPERIORITY. YOUR HAM-SANDWICH MINIONS ARE NO MATCH FOR THE PHYSICAL PROWESS CONTAINED WITHIN MY GENETICALLY PERFECT CHROMOSOMES. THE MOMENT THEY STEP INTO THIS RING, I WILL CRUSH THEIR INFERIOR CRANIUMS INTO THE EARTH WHERE FUTURE GENERATIONS WILL DISCOVER THEM AND MARVEL AT THEIR PUNY CIRCUMFERENCES."</p><p> </p><p>"Hell yeah!!!" Glen shouted. "Put 'em in their fucking place, Measurehead!!!"</p><p>"Did you understand a single word from what he said?" Titus asked him.</p><p>Glen blinked. </p><p>"'Course I did!" he yelled back. "He's gonna kill 'em!!!!"</p><p>Titus sighed. "Close enough," he muttered.</p><p> </p><p>After a spiel like that, Titus expected Ace and his goons to get all riled up and pissed off, maybe even shout back a threat or two just to give Measurehead a taste of his own damn medicine. </p><p>But Ace just looked...bored.</p><p>Disappointed, even.</p><p>As if Measurehead had somehow failed some hidden test that Ace had been really hoping that he would pass. </p><p> </p><p>All of a sudden, one of Ace's goons stepped forward. He was bigger than his buddy--- almost as tall as Measurehead, and just as buff. Judging from his swagger and his physique, he was definitely an experienced fighter, and Titus had no doubt that he would give Measurehead a run for his money---</p><p> </p><p>But the goon didn't go into the ring.</p><p>Instead, he turned towards his boss---</p><p>---and took the trench coat that Ace handed over to him.</p><p> </p><p>Titus' jaw dropped.</p><p>Shocked silence descended upon the dock. </p><p>"No. Fucking. Way," Glen whispered.</p><p> </p><p>As everyone watched on, Ace casually began to strip himself down, draping each discarded article of clothing onto his bodyguard's arm.</p><p>He took off his jacket. Then his tie...</p><p>"This is a fight, ya faggot, not a fucking striptease!!!" shouted a drunk with a deathwish. Thankfully, he was quickly muffled and dragged off by some of his friends, who probably wanted him to stay alive more than he did. </p><p> </p><p>By the time Ace was done, he was clad only in his undershirt, gloves, slacks, and shoes. Without his jacket and trench coat, he looked positively tiny compared to Measurehead, who towered over him by a good half-meter. Still, Titus couldn't help but notice the coiled strength that lay in Ace's lean, sinewy frame, and the absolute confidence with which he carried himself...</p><p>"M-Measurehead's gonna snap him in half," Fat Angus blubbered in horror.</p><p>Somehow, Titus had a feeling that wouldn't be happening any time soon.</p><p> </p><p><em>What are you thinking, Ace?</em>  he asked in his mind.</p><p>But the Seolite man just slowly paced along the edge of the ring, his eyes trained on Measurehead and his arms hanging loosely at his sides.</p><p> </p><p>"YOU ARE PLAYING A TRICK ON ME, LITTLE MONGOLOID," Measurehead rumbled. "EITHER THAT, OR YOU ARE SIGNING YOUR OWN DEATH WARRANT. GO, SCURRY BACK TO YOUR ALLIES AND I WILL SPARE YOU FROM THE HUMILIATION THAT I AM ABOUT TO DEAL TO YOUR PATHETIC, SALLOW-SKINNED RACE."</p><p> </p><p>"Less talking, more fighting, you fucking racist," Ace drawled.</p><p>His voice echoed throughout the silent harbor and snapped the crowd out of its trance---</p><p>And everyone went wild.</p><p> </p><p>"Oh man, chink's going to get. <em>F</em><em>ucked. Up -</em>--!!!!!!!"</p><p>"I told you he'd be the one to fight! I told you!!!!!"</p><p>"One punch is all you need, Measurehead!!!!"</p><p>"Mash his face in, Measurehead!!!!!!"</p><p>"Go back to your fucking family restaurant, you binoclard chink!!!!"</p><p> </p><p>But Ace seemed completely immune to the barrage of trashtalk and abuse that was being hurled at him. </p><p>Instead, he just stopped pacing, raised his fists in front of his face, and started bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet. </p><p>He didn't look nervous at all, just...calm. Focused. Ready.</p><p>Like a cocked gun about to fire a bullet.</p><p> </p><p>Now, Titus had seen a lot of fighting stances during his prizefighting stint, but he'd never seen this one before. It made Ace look like he was just about to have a quick spar, not an all-out slugfest with a Semenese giant who was almost double his size.</p><p> </p><p>At the sight of Ace's raised fists, Measurehead unfurled his arms and cracked his neck.</p><p>"VERY WELL, SUICIDAL ONE. COME AT ME WITH ALL YOUR STRENGTH," he said, as he adopted a solid southpaw stance.</p><p> </p><p>Still bouncing on his feet, Ace shrugged.</p><p>"Alright," he said.</p><p> </p><p>Then, Titus blinked---</p><p>And Ace vanished.</p><p> </p><p>Titus gaped at the empty space where Ace had been.</p><p>
  <em>What the---</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Suddenly, Ace reappeared right in front of Measurehead, who seemed just as surprised as TItus was---</p><p>Measurehead started to raise his fists to block the inevitable blow---</p><p>Ace's hand darted forward like a black viper---</p><p>A second later, Measurehead was down on his knees and clutching his throat.</p><p> </p><p>It took a second for Titus' brain to catch up with what just happened.</p><p>Namely, that Ace had somehow managed to crush Measurehead's windpipe with a single knife-hand strike.</p><p> </p><p>But then, Ace proceeded to blow Titus' goddamn mind by executing a perfect spin kick---</p><p>And slamming his heel into Measurehead's temple. </p><p> </p><p>Measurehead swayed on his knees. </p><p>Blood trickled from his nose and his mouth.</p><p>He released a single, gurgling groan.</p><p>Then, very, very slowly, like a great tree toppling over in the forest, he fell to the ground.</p><p> </p><p>And the fight was over.</p><p> </p><p>There was absolute silence.</p><p>United in utter shock, the audience stared at Measurehead's sprawled, unconscious form.</p><p>They glanced at the small puddle of blood that was pooling under his mouth.</p><p>Finally, they looked up---</p><p>And gaped at the gangster who brought him down in two moves.</p><p> </p><p>Ace sighed.</p><p>"So much for the pinnacle of human perfection," he said, nudging Measurehead's body with his toe.</p><p> </p><p>A can of beer slid out of someone's numb fingers and clattered to the floor.</p><p> </p><p>Seemingly oblivious to the stupefied stares that he was getting, Ace made his way back to his bodyguards and put on the trench coat that one of them was already holding open for him.</p><p>After that, Ace surveyed the crowd, and all of them shrunk back from his gaze... </p><p> </p><p>All of them.</p><p>Except for one.</p><p>Because even though he'd just witnessed the most terrifying and amazing fight that he'd ever seen in his entire life, Titus Hardie never backed down from a challenge. </p><p>And he sure as hell wasn't going to back down now.</p><p> </p><p>In those few, tense seconds that he locked eyes with Ace, Titus could've sworn that he saw the gangster's lips quirk up in a small, secret smile that was reserved for him and him alone...</p><p> </p><p>But before Titus could figure out what that the hell meant, Ace had already looked away.</p><p>"Pleasure doing business with you, gentlemen," Ace said, and Titus correctly guessed that he was looking straight at Evrart Claire, who was doing a piss-poor job of hiding behind an unlucky dockworker whose scrawny body did nothing to hide his massive bulk from Ace's sight.</p><p>Without further ado, Ace turned on his heel and left the harbor.</p><p> </p><p>Titus and his boys ended up skipping their karaoke session that night.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>A week later, life at the docks returned back to normal. Lorries came and went, containers were delivered and stacked, dockworkers cussed and fought and did the backbreaking work that they'd been doing for decades---</p><p>But everyone was still talking about the fight. </p><p> </p><p>It had been told and re-told so many times by now that it had became a local legend. Ace had knocked out Measurehead with a single punch. Ace had fought naked. Ace had vanished like smoke. Ace was a shadow, a ghost, a monster...</p><p>But even as the stories became more and more absurd, Titus couldn't help but feel carried away by the heady mix of awe and terror that Ace inspired among his men. He'd never admit it to anyone, but he'd been having strange dreams that week. Dreams about caged tigers, about a cool, sharp, hungry gaze that hypnotized him and made him want to step into the cage and bare his neck to its black, deadly hands---</p><p>Dreams about a small, secret smile whose meaning slipped through Titus' fingers like smoke from a smouldering cigarette...</p><p> </p><p>He'd wake up from those dreams feeling...strange.</p><p>And if he'd been taking a lot more cold showers lately, he could always just chalk it up to the sweltering weather.</p><p> </p><p>Titus was supervising a delivery of new containers from FALN when one of his men jogged up to him, looking absolutely winded and terrified.</p><p>"T-Titus---" Jimmy Halloran stammered. "Uh. There's...there's someone who wants to see you at the booth in the Whirling."</p><p>Dismayed at having his work interrupted, Titus arched an eyebrow at him.</p><p>"What? Who are you talking about, Jimmy?"</p><p>Jimmy kept his mouth shut, and Titus swore that he could hear the other man's teeth chattering in his skull...</p><p>Then, it hit him.</p><p> </p><p>Titus passed the delivery onto Eugene and excused himself. </p><p>His suspicions were confirmed when he spotted a lone LUM Chaleur parked outside of the Whirling, with one black-suited goon guarding the car.</p><p> </p><p>Trying to stifle the anticipation and fear in his gut, Titus entered the Whirling and saw Sylvie, the waitress, who was standing behind the bar, looking pale and anxious...</p><p>"Hey, Sylvie," he said, giving her his most reassuring smile. "They here already?"</p><p>Sylvie nodded and pointed a trembling finger at the closed booth that was usually reserved for Titus and his boys.</p><p> </p><p>Titus thanked her and stood outside the door for a moment to steel his nerves.</p><p>Then, he stepped inside. </p><p> </p><p>He expected the room to be full of black-clad goons, but that wasn't the case. Instead, it was just Ace, sitting alone by the window. He was dressed in his usual black suit, and his coat was slung over the back of his seat. His eyes were fixed on the small, chirping bird perched on the bushes outside, and the warm, afternoon sun highlighted the arch of his cheekbones and the curve of his profile---</p><p>Titus didn't realize that he was staring until Ace greeted him. </p><p> </p><p>"Good afternoon, Mr. Hardie. Please, have a seat," he said, gesturing to the empty booth chair in front of him. </p><p>Compelled by a mysterious force, Titus obediently strode forward and sat down. This was the closest he'd ever been to Ace, and Titus had expected to feel paralyzed with terror, or at least intimidated out of his wits...</p><p> </p><p>But, to his surprise, he didn't feel any of those at all.</p><p>Instead, he felt strangely at ease, as if he was just about to chat with an old friend, and not with the damn scion of one of the most powerful crime families in Revachol.</p><p>And that bothered him more than if he'd felt scared or intimidated.</p><p> </p><p>"Mr. Ace," he said, by way of greeting.</p><p>"No need to be so formal. You can call me Ace," the Seolite man said. "May I call you Titus?"</p><p>Titus blinked and stared at him for a beat before nodding at him warily. "Sure. That's fine with me...Ace."</p><p> </p><p>At his reply, Ace gave him one of those small, mysterious smiles that had been plaguing his dreams for the past week, and Titus blamed the sunlight for the warmth that crept up his cheeks.</p><p>"I apologize for calling you over at such short notice," Ace said. "You must have been busy at work. I promise not to take up too much of your time..."</p><p>"No, it's alright," Titus quickly said. "The guys are more than capable of handling themselves while I'm away," he said. "Do you want er...coffee, or anything?"</p><p> </p><p>Ace's eyes lit up at his question, as if he hadn't been expecting Titus to offer him that simple courtesy. </p><p>"Coffee would be wonderful, thank you," he answered, and the sincere gratitude in his eyes made Titus wonder whether gangsters offered some other kind of drink to their guests, like whiskey or blood or something.</p><p>For all he knew, maybe they offered nothing at all and just went straight to the part where they murdered all of their guests. </p><p> </p><p>As he stepped out of the booth to pass their orders to Sylvie, Titus mulled on the stark difference between the Ace that he'd seen in Evrart's office and the one whose coffee he was about to order. The first Ace had been cold, cutthroat, and calculating, completely focused on winning a decisive victory over his enemies. But this one was polite, restrained, cordial, completely at ease in his own skin and seemingly eager to make others feel at ease around him as well.</p><p>The difference was...jarring, to say the least.</p><p> </p><p>"So," Titus said, as he eased himself back into their booth. "How can I help you today, Ace?"</p><p>Ace clasped his hands together and leaned forward. "It's about the construction of the arcade," he said. "As per my family's agreement with the Union, we get to select one of the locals who can serve as our foreman. That person will help us oversee the whole project and serve as the liaison between myself and the workers who'll be based here."</p><p>Now, Titus knew that he looked like your typical, run-of-the-mill dumb jock who couldn't put two and two together to make four. But that's where most people got him wrong.</p><p>"Lemme guess," he said, leaning back and crossing his arms. "You want me to be that foreman."</p><p>Ace's lips quirked up. </p><p>"Yes. Do you accept?" he asked, leaning back and mirroring Titus' posture.</p><p> </p><p>Titus shrugged. "Got my hands full at the docks already," he said matter-of-factly. "Not sure how I'd find the time to oversee such a huge project like that..."</p><p>"We're planning on 'borrowing' you from the Union for the duration of the build," Ace explained. "We'll match the salary that you currently receive from the docks, with an added bonus for the hazard pay. Discussions are already underway with Mr. Claire regarding the terms of your potential contract with us."</p><p>"What about for the other guys who might be interested in signing up? Won't that leave the docks undermanned?"</p><p>Ace shrugged. "You said it yourself, Titus. There hasn't been much work coming from Wild Pines lately. And besides, my family is more than capable of finding workers for the project. We're just opening it up to the Union for...charitable purposes."</p><p> </p><p>Titus frowned at him. "So what? This is just a pity party that you're throwing for us?"</p><p>Ace didn't rise up to his bait. "Would you rather that we withheld this opportunity from your men?"</p><p>And damn, Titus didn't know what to say to that.</p><p> </p><p>At that point, Sylvie interrupted their meeting and brought in their drinks---a cup of brewed coffee for Ace and a cold glass of lemonade for Titus.</p><p>Ace quirked an eyebrow at the sight of Titus' drink.</p><p>"Not a coffee-drinker, Titus?" he asked, with an amused glint in his eye.</p><p>Flushing slightly, Titus looked away from him and took a gulp of his lemonade. "Caffeine makes me jittery as hell," he muttered. "Makes it hard for me to sleep at night too."</p><p>To his relief, Ace just sipped on his coffee without further comment.</p><p> </p><p>"So," Ace said, putting his cup down carefully. "Do you accept my offer?"</p><p>Titus mulled over it. He had to admit it was a tempting proposal. He knew practically everyone at the docks, and he was more than used to managing a bunch of tough guys who needed to pull their shit together to achieve a common goal. Besides, the thought of having an outsider watch over his men during the construction project just didn't sit well with him. They'd probably beat that guy up and start a fucking mutiny within the first week. </p><p> </p><p>And also...</p><p>He looked at Ace, who was waiting for his answer with an air of infinite patience and consideration.</p><p>Then, his eyes glanced down at the black-gloved hands that gently cradled the coffee cup between their slender, deadly fingers...</p><p> </p><p>Titus chewed the inside of his cheek.</p><p>"Why me?" he finally asked Ace. "Evrart could've recommended at least ten other guys to you who'd make a better foreman than I would. Heck, I could recommend ten other guys to you right now, if you asked me to." </p><p> </p><p>Unconsciously, he started fidgeting with his cold, sweating glass of lemonade, and he saw Ace's eyes drift down to his hands...</p><p>Then, it suddenly occurred to Titus that maybe, just maybe, Ace had been having trouble sleeping this past week too. </p><p> </p><p>And that thought was so mind-blowing that it knocked all the air out of his lungs. </p><p> </p><p>"I chose you because you're a good man, Titus," Ace eventually said. "You genuinely care for your people. You treat them like family. You're honest, strong, confident, but not cocky---"</p><p>Titus chuckled at that, and Ace smiled briefly before continuing. "---and you have guts. Lots of guts," he finished.</p><p>And Titus knew that he was talking about that moment when they locked eyes after the fight.</p><p> </p><p>Later on, as Titus walked out of the Whirling, he wondered whether he'd made the right choice. What if Evrart chewed him out for switching to Ace's team? What if Ace was just playing around with him, and this was all just a trap to lure Titus into working for some shady mafia shit? What if the construction project got hit by the curse of the Doomed Commercial District? What if his men saw him as a traitor who sold them off to some bigshot gangster with lots of cash? </p><p>There were just so many things that could go wrong, and Titus and his crew would be right in the fucking eye of the storm if everything went to hell.</p><p> </p><p>But then, he remembered Ace. </p><p>Specifically, he remembered the sight of Ace sitting in that empty room, all alone, with nothing but a small, chirping bird outside the window for company. </p><p> </p><p>He remembered how small Ace looked without his coat.</p><p>Small, and...</p><p>Lonely.</p><p>So, so lonely.</p><p> </p><p>And at that moment, Titus decided that as far as he was concerned, the whole world could go fuck itself if it disagreed with his decision. </p><p> </p><p>That night, Titus dreamed of a tiger again. It watched him through the bars of its cage, its large, luminous eyes cold, curious, and hungry...</p><p>But Titus knew that it would never hurt him.</p><p> </p><p>Armed with this certainty, he walked over to its cage and unlocked the door.</p><p>Then, he stepped inside...</p><p>And sat beside the tiger.</p><p> </p><p>It didn't shy away from his touch. In fact, it nuzzled its face into his palm and released a low, contented purr.</p><p><em>Thank you</em>, it seemed to say.</p><p> </p><p>Titus remained with the tiger until the darkness lifted, and the warm rays of dawn shone on them both. </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>-&gt; An Idiot's Guide to Writing as Measurehead:<br/>Step One - Hit Caps Lock<br/>Step Two - Know genetic terms and several synonyms for "superior"<br/>Step Three - Channel your inner racist<br/>Step Four - Let the words flow like water</p><p>Next chapter: Back to our regular programming ft. our favorite Lt. McGrumpy-Face</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. A Wall, Built</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It's early evening by the time Jean pulls into the curb outside of the Whirling, and he's tired, hungry, and desperate for a long, hot shower. His last stop had been the coroner’s office in Faubourg, and the stench of death and formaldehyde still clung to his clothes like second-hand smoke... </p><p>On their next case, Jean decides, he'll be the one to stay behind and seduce the neighborhood mechanic while Harry goes and visits the stiffs at processing. </p><p>Sighing, he leans back against the driver's seat and mulls over his accomplishments for the day. Since he was a thorough and efficient son-of-a-bitch, he managed to check on all of the leads that he and Harry agreed upon. Oldboy succeeded in getting the list of all LUM Fevre '50s that had been purchased in the last two years, and the coroner gave him printed copies of the full autopsy reports on the two corpses from the car crash. And, since Jean was also a lovestruck idiot with the self-control of a hormonal teenager, he was able to squeeze in a quick detour to---</p><p>He's startled out of his thoughts by two sharp raps on his car window.</p><p> </p><p>When Jean turns to see who it is, he locks eyes with a scrawny dockworker with ugly, rabbit-like teeth and a sallow complexion. The man looks jittery, and his hands are shoved inside the pockets of his bulky parka...</p><p>Jean eyes the man's pocketed hands with wary suspicion. </p><p><em>Gun or knife?</em> he thinks to himself. </p><p> </p><p>Then, as if reading Jean's mind, the man raises his empty hands in the air.</p><p>"Got nothin' on me, I swear," he says, his raspy voice muffled by the glass between them.</p><p> </p><p>Jean frowns at him. </p><p>"What do you want?" he says, in a voice loud enough so that the man could still hear him even through the closed window.</p><p>The dockworker lowers his hands and takes something out of his pocket---</p><p>Jean's hand automatically springs towards his holstered gun---</p><p> </p><p>"Got a note for ya!" the man says, waving a small envelope in the air. "It's about the case!"</p><p>Jean blinks.</p><p>His hand slowly moves away from his gun.</p><p> </p><p>After making sure that the man isn't going to pull a weapon on him, Jean slowly lowers his car window and grabs the envelope. </p><p>"Who's it from?" he asks.</p><p>The man gives him a buck-toothed sneer. "Just read it for yourself, ya damn pig."</p><p>Then, before Jean can react to the insult, he backs off from the car and jogs away into the descending dark.</p><p> </p><p>Baffled and enraged, Jean stares after his rapidly retreating figure.</p><p>"The hell was that about?" he mutters to himself. </p><p>After taking a few minutes to calm down, he cautiously examines the envelope in his hands. There doesn't seem to be anything special about it---just a plain white envelope whose sender didn't even have the decency to make Jean's life easier by writing their name on it.</p><p> </p><p>After a beat, Jean lifts the envelope to his nose and gives it a little sniff.</p><p>Nothing. Not even the smell of ink.</p><p><em>What were you hoping for, Vicquemare, the fucking scent of roses?</em> he scolds himself.</p><p> </p><p>Jean's just about to open the envelope when all of a sudden, it occurs to him that he might want to wait until he's with Harry so that they can read the message together...</p><p>But then, he realizes that he'd have to share the message with Harry anyway, so he might as well satisfy his curiosity and read it first.</p><p> </p><p>Before he can change his mind, Jean turns on the light in his car, opens the envelope, and takes out the small piece of paper within it. He squints at the short message that's type-written onto the stationary...</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p>
  <em>Detectives,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I have some crucial information about the case that you're investigating. Kindly meet me in the Union Office in the dockyard on Wednesday, 4 o'clock sharp. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Cordially,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>E.C.</em>
</p>
<hr/><p> </p><p><em>E.C.?  </em>Jean wonders to himself, trying to recall if he and Harry had already interviewed anyone with those initials. He checks the back of the note to see if there's anything written there, but it's disappointingly devoid of any helpful P.S.'s. </p><p>He doesn't need to be a detective to figure out that whoever wrote this worked in the docks, was well-educated (who uses "Cordially" nowadays?) and that they were probably someone important since they had access to the Union Office. </p><p>But how did they know about the case? </p><p>And, more importantly...</p><p>What if this was just a fucking trap set by a murderer to catch a couple of nosy pigs?</p><p> </p><p>Stifling the anxiety that simmers in his gut, Jean carefully puts the note back in the envelope. The best thing to do, he decides, would be to show this to Harry tonight so they can figure out what the hell they should do about it tomorrow. </p><p>Armed with this decision, Jean puts the envelope in his pocket, grabs his things, and strides out of his car.</p><p> </p><p>He comes back a few moments later to grab the pie box that he'd forgotten in the passenger seat. </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>As he makes his way up to the Whirling's second floor, Jean spots Harry seated by the round table outside of their rooms. His partner seems to be completely absorbed in studying a circular board that's covered in small cardboard pieces...</p><p>In fact, he's so engrossed in it that when Jean taps him on the shoulder, Harry launches a few feet into the air.</p><p> </p><p>"Jean!" Harry exclaims, clutching his chest with a stricken expression. "Don't sneak up on me like that! You almost gave me a heart attack!!!"</p><p>Jean shrugs. "Don't blame me, shitkid. Blame the fried eggs and bacon that you have for breakfast everyday," he mutters with a smirk. Then, Jean's eyes land on the table, and he realizes that Harry was looking at some sort of...board game?</p><p>He frowns. "What the fuck is going on here?"</p><p> </p><p>Harry straightens up and rearranges the pieces on the board. "It's called Suzerainty," he says. "I borrowed it from a local kid so that I can study it tonight and prepare for---"</p><p>Suddenly, he cuts off.</p><p>When Jean looks at Harry's face again, his partner's cheeks are burning red, which could only mean that...</p><p> </p><p>Jean narrows his eyes.</p><p>"You're going on a fucking date with that mechanic again tomorrow, aren't you," he says.</p><p> </p><p>Harry winces violently.</p><p> </p><p>Jean plops himself down on the chair opposite from Harry. "Please tell me that you actually learned something useful from him today," he says in a weary, hopeful voice.</p><p>Harry opens his mouth to say something.</p><p>Jean waits for him to say something.</p><p>Harry closes his mouth and says nothing.</p><p> </p><p>And if it weren't for the precious box of apple pie that he was still holding in his hands, Jean would've probably flipped over the table by now.</p><p> </p><p>"Wait, Jean," Harry says, putting his hands up in front of him like flimsy shields. "Let's head to your room and discuss what we've found out today---"</p><p>"You mean what <em>I've</em> found out today," Jean mutters through gritted teeth.  </p><p>"I've found out a few things too," Harry says quickly. "It's just..." His face falls, and Jean spots a flash of sadness in Harry's eyes. "Well, I need your help to make sense of it," he says quietly.</p><p> </p><p>Jean gives him a questioning look. "This about your mechanic?"  </p><p>Harry nods. "Yeah. Yeah, it's about him---"</p><p> </p><p>Then, Harry spots the box in Jean's hands, and his eyes light up with recognition. </p><p>"Hey," Harry says, pointing at the box, "is that Trant's apple---"</p><p> </p><p>Jean's first instinct is to hiss at his partner like a threatened cat. </p><p>Then, his brain kicks in and reminds him that he has to act like a fucking human being, so he just gives Harry a death glare and clutches the box containing the precious pastry to his chest.</p><p>"Yes, it is, and you won't get a fucking <em>crumb</em> unless you prove that you actually learned something today that'll help us crack this case," Jean mutters.</p><p> </p><p>Before Harry can unleash his puppy-dog eyes on him, Jean stands up and marches into his room, all the while keeping the pastry box carefully tucked underneath his arm.</p><p>He slams the door behind him.</p><p> </p><p>Seconds later, Jean opens his door again, and Harry rushes in.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>As Jean surveys their handiwork, he shoves a heavenly forkful of pie into his mouth and ignores the envious look that Harry gives him. </p><p>"Focus on the fucking wall, shitkid," Jean mutters around his fork. "We might've forgotten to put something up there."</p><p> </p><p>Aside from the Thinking Ball, one of the more effective brainstorming strategies that he and Harry had come up with in the past years was the Thinking Wall---And if anyone dared to ask who had come up with those brilliant names, Jean would immediately point an accusatory finger at Harry and plant an innocent look on his own face.</p><p>The method was simple. They'd find a room and use a portion of the wall as a brainstorming board where they could tack on photos, maps, and notes that contained clues about their current case. It was their favorite way of organizing the overwhelming amount of information that they tended to gather in the field, and it almost always gave them a new lead to pursue.</p><p>It took them half an hour to transform one of the walls in Jean's room to a Thinking Wall, and they're currently staring at it to see if they'd forgotten to put anything up there. Jean had tacked three photos onto the board: the wrecked car, the dead woman, and the dead man. Harry had tacked notes with the words "KING" and "QUEEN" on the pictures of the corpses, as well as several notes containing important details of their field autopsy. The picture of the car was surrounded by various notes as well, mostly containing information about its trajectory before the crash.</p><p> </p><p>"Mind showing me that list from LUM?" Harry asks. </p><p>Jean shrugs and passes the list over to him. "Only 54 units have been sold in the past two years," he says, "which means there are 54 rich bastards out there who have more money than they know what to do with."</p><p>Harry hums thoughtfully and looks through the list. "You thinking what I'm thinking?"</p><p>Jean grins at him. "Been there, done that, Mullen. I asked Oldboy to check whether any of the names in the list had a criminal record, and it turns out they're all either law-abiding citizens or rich kids whose parents can bribe their way through the justice system."</p><p>Harry's eyes glint with pride as he returns Jean's grin. "Attaboy," he says, and Jean rewards himself with another mouthful of pie at Harry's praise.</p><p> </p><p>Then, Harry's face turns pensive again. "Should've known it wouldn't be that easy..." </p><p>He trails a finger down the list for a few seconds.</p><p>Then, his eyes light up, and he glances back and forth between the list and the Wall.</p><p> </p><p>"Hey, Jean," he says, "remember what I said about our boy here being rich and vain?"</p><p>Jean blinks. "Yeah, what about it?"</p><p>Harry flashes a smile and hands back the list to him.</p><p>"Look at the plate numbers and tell me what you see."</p><p> </p><p>Frowning, Jean takes the list and scans the license plates. </p><p>Then, he sees it.</p><p>"KNG1111," he says with disbelief, looking up at the Wall. "King."</p><p>Harry happily shoots finger guns at him.</p><p> </p><p>Jean shakes his head in disbelief. "Bastard wasn't just vain. He had his entire head up his ass."</p><p>Harry scribbles the license plate number on a new post-it and tacks it in between the photo of the dead man and the wrecked car. "So what's this guy's name?"</p><p>"Says here it's...Lelystad Kortanaer." Jean frowns. "Wait, Lelystad? Isn't that a place in Oranje or something?"</p><p>Harry nods. "Cold, barren place in the middle of nowhere. Which, to be fair," he says with a shrug, "is what most of Oranje is like."</p><p> </p><p>Jean scribbles the name on a post-it and sticks it by the dead man's picture. "This could be a fake name, for all we know," he points out.</p><p>"True, but it's still a lead," Harry says. "We should see if Oldboy can dig something up on him tomorrow."</p><p>Jean smirks. "We should buy Jules a box of doughnuts when all of this is done. He's been a real trooper."</p><p>Harry chuckles. "Yeah. And if we're lucky, he'll share the doughnuts with us too," he says with a meaningful wink.</p><p> </p><p>Jean rolls his eyes. "No, you still don't get your slice of pie, Harry. Jules dug up that info, not you."</p><p>Harry actually dares to pout at him.</p><p> </p><p>"By the way..." Jean reaches for his ledger, takes out a copy of the coroner's report, and waggles it tantalizingly in front of Harry's face.</p><p>It has their desired effect. Harry's eyes light up, and he immediately swipes the report from Jean and begins poring through it like an excited, nerdy ten-year-old.</p><p> </p><p>"Have you read through this, Jean?" he asks.</p><p>"Yeah. I spotted two interesting things," Jean says, peering over Harry's shoulder to point out the relevant portions to him. "See here? Toxicology report. Both of these stiffs were high as a kite when they got offed."</p><p>Harry's eyebrows shoot up as he browses through the list of drugs that were found in the corpses' systems. "Wow," he says in a hushed voice. "no wonder they didn't need to be tied up. They were probably seeing unicorns frolicking in rainbow clouds with everything that they were on."</p><p> </p><p>"But there's more," Jean says, taking the report from Harry and flipping it to a different page. "They found something...else."</p><p>Now it's Harry's turn to peer over his shoulder. </p><p> </p><p>A moment of silence passes between them.</p><p>"So. They were..." Harry trails off.</p><p>Jean nods solemnly.</p><p>"Yeah. They were fucking."</p><p> </p><p>They both take a moment to process that.</p><p>"Do you, uh, want to write the note for that?" Harry asks Jean.</p><p>Jean shrugs. "Okay."</p><p>A few seconds later, there's a post-it on the Wall with "<strong>&lt;-- FUCKING --&gt;</strong>" written on it in big, bold letters stuck between the pictures of the dead man and woman.</p><p> </p><p>"I don't get it," Harry mutters. "They found his semen in her, but how could they have...done it before they were both shot in the head?"</p><p>Jean mulls over that conundrum. "Well," he says, thinking out loud. "It could be that they were caught by surprise while they were fucking."</p><p>Harry winces. "How can you say it so..." he gestures vaguely in the air. "Casually?" he eventually says.</p><p>Jean quirks an eyebrow. "Fucking? It's because I fucking say it all the fucking time, fucking shitkid."</p><p> </p><p>Harry blinks. "Oh, right."</p><p> </p><p>"So as I was saying," Jean continues. "they could've been caught by surprise by the perp while they were fucking. But..." he frowns. "That would mean neither of them saw the perp approaching."</p><p>Harry shrugs. "The murderer could've also just forced them to..."</p><p>Jean quirks an eyebrow at him. </p><p>"Come on, Harry. Just say it."</p><p>Harry winces and clears his throat. </p><p>"Could've just forced them to..." </p><p>Jean mouths the word for him like a preschool teacher helping a child learn how to speak properly.</p><p>"...Fuck," Harry eventually manages to say with a bright red flush on his face.</p><p>Jean pats him proudly on the shoulder. </p><p> </p><p>"That would've been awful," Jean acknowledges with a wince. "But how would that explain the drugs? In the surprise scenario, they could've been too high to notice the perp approach."</p><p>Harry strokes his chin thoughtfully. "The murderer could've shot them from afar too."</p><p>Jean blinks at him. "A sniper?"</p><p>"Exactly. But we don't have much of a lead in either of those directions right now," Harry says with a sigh. "All we know is that they were...fucking and extremely high shortly before they died."</p><p> </p><p>Jean frowns. "The plot thickens," he mutters before eating another forkful of pie. </p><p>Harry chuckles. "Pretty messed up plot, if you ask me," he says. "But you did great, Jean. At least we have a lead on the dead guy's name and some ideas of how the murder could've taken place."</p><p>"Damn right I did well," Jean says with a huff. "Now, what about you? What did you find out during your fucking date?"</p><p> </p><p>Harry flushes again.</p><p>"We'd better add a post-it that says 'Kim Kitsuragi' on the wall," he says. </p><p>"On it, shitkid," Jean says, picking up a marker and scribbling something on a post-it.</p><p> </p><p>When he sticks the note on the Wall, Harry gapes at him.</p><p>"Really, Jean? Really???"</p><p>Jean gives him a shrug and a deadpan look. "What? It's pretty accurate, if you ask me," he says, looking at the post-it that had "❤❤KIM KITSURAGI❤❤" written on it. "I could add more hearts, if you want---"</p><p>"No, that's...that's enough, thank you," Harry says, coughing into his fist. </p><p> </p><p>Jean's having far too much fun with this. </p><p>"So what did you learn about Kim?" he asks.</p><p> </p><p>Harry sighs. "Well, he's an orphan. Born and raised here in Revachol, but his parents were killed during the Revolution."</p><p>Jean listens to him carefully, and notes the sadness in Harry's voice.</p><p>"He was adopted by his current family---the one who owns the small business that he runs in town," Harry says. </p><p>"Any idea what that business really is? For all we know, the auto-repair shop could just be a cover-up for something shady," Jean points out.</p><p>"We didn't get to talk about that," Harry admits. "But he has a good reputation among the locals. The little girl who owns the board game I borrowed wouldn't stop talking about him." A small smile appears on his face. "Said he was the coolest, kindest guy in the neighborhood. She mentioned that he lives alone though, in that apartment that he told us about yesterday..."</p><p> </p><p>Jean stifles the urge to roll his eyes. "Skip the fawning and just get to the part that's actually related to the case, Harry," he says impatiently.</p><p>"Well...when that girl saw him at the arcade today, she didn't call him Kim," Harry says. "She called him Ace."</p><p>Jean frowns at him. "And why is that important?"</p><p> </p><p>Sighing, Harry walks over to the Wall and points at the picture of the dead woman.</p><p>"Queen," he says.</p><p>Then, he traces his finger to the picture of the dead man.</p><p>"King."</p><p> </p><p>Then, he points at Kim's name, and his face becomes pained and uncertain...</p><p>Jean's heart twinges in his chest.</p><p> </p><p>"Might just be a coincidence," he says flippantly. "There must be lots of guys here who're called Ace---"</p><p>"Maybe," Harry murmurs. "But remember what I said about the profile of the driver who drove the car into the ocean?"</p><p>Jean winces.</p><p>He remembers, all right.</p><p>"I really, really hate to say it, Jean," Harry says quietly, "but...he fits the bill. He's thin enough to fit between King and the wheel. He knows how to handle a car, and---"</p><p>He trails off.</p><p> </p><p>Jean patiently waits for him to continue. </p><p>Harry takes a deep breath. "---And he messes up the voices in my head," he eventually admits. "Just like that dead party-girl."</p><p>Suddenly, Jean recalls how pale and exhausted Harry was when they finished the field autopsy on the woman, and it occurs to him that Harry looked just like that after their first conversation with Kim...</p><p>He has to admit that Harry's deductions made sense. In fact, he'd been entertaining that exact same conclusion---that Kim had been the one who drove the car into the ocean---ever since they heard Speedfreaks FM playing in the Whirling's backyard.</p><p>But now, Jean's surprised to find that he doesn't really want to believe that conclusion, if only because Harry looks so, so devastated by it.</p><p> </p><p>Harry hangs his head and sighs again. "That's why I have to see him again tomorrow, Jean," he says. "I...I need to know."</p><p>And Jean hears the words that Harry cannot bring himself to say. </p><p>
  <em>I need to know if he did it.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I need to know <strong>why</strong> he did it.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Suddenly, Jean knows what he has to do.</p><p>"Hey, shitkid," he says quietly. </p><p>Harry looks up at him with sad, sad eyes.</p><p>Jean turns around and takes a moment to fix something on the table behind him...</p><p>Then, he shoves a plate full of apple pie under Harry's nose. </p><p> </p><p>Harry stares at it. </p><p>Jean grins. "Go on, take it," he says with a jerk of his chin.</p><p>Harry carefully takes the plate with both hands.</p><p>Then, he gives Jean a look so full of gratitude that Jean flushes and looks away. </p><p>"Thanks, Jean," Harry says. </p><p> </p><p>Jean coughs into his fist.</p><p>"Thank Trant," he mutters. "He made the damn thing."</p><p> </p><p>As Harry demolishes his slice of pie, Jean remembers the note that's still tucked away in his pockets.</p><p>He chews on the inside of his cheek.</p><p>"What time are you planning on meeting Kim tomorrow?" he asks Harry.</p><p>"Oh. Uh...Around 4 PM onwards," Harry says. "That's when Kim said he'll be free. Why do you ask?"</p><p>Jean opens his mouth to tell him about the note---</p><p>--- but instead, what he ends up saying is, "Because I don't want to be around when you start making smoochy faces at each other, shitkid."</p><p> </p><p>As Harry flushes and stammers out an incoherent reply, Jean wonders why he said that.</p><p>He can still tell Harry about the note.</p><p>He can still ask Harry to move his meeting with Kim so that they can both meet with the mysterious informant known as E.C.</p><p>But then he remembers the look of absolute concentration on Harry's face while he was staring at that board game, and the sadness in his eyes when they were talking about the possibility that Kim might be the perp...</p><p>And he realizes that if Harry succeeds in making Kim talk, then they wouldn't need to talk to E.C. at all.</p><p>But if Harry failed, and the damn note turned out to be a trap, well...</p><p>Jean's hand secretly fiddles with the envelope in his pocket.</p><p>...Then it would be better if only one of them fell into it.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>As Ace waits on the arcade rooftop, he sweeps his gaze across the deserted waterfront and imagines the hellhole that it'll turn into in two days.</p><p>There will be fresh bullet holes in the walls, maybe some shattered windows. Ruud might even flip a car over and set in on fire, just for fun.</p><p>Of course, there will be bodies.</p><p>But if his plan works, there would only be four of them.</p><p>He wonders how many bullets Jack would get to pump into him before they both go down.</p><p> </p><p>The door to the rooftop opens behind him.</p><p>Ace smirks at the red-hot glower that he feels from the person standing by the door.</p><p>"Glen," he says, keeping his eyes trained on the waterfront below.</p><p> </p><p>The blonde says nothing. He just stands by the entrance of the roof, and Ace can almost see him shooting frantic looks at the staircase behind him, like a jittery rabbit looking for a way out---</p><p><em>Should've known he'd make this difficult</em>, Kim sighs in his mind. </p><p>Ace shrugs. <em>Won't stop us from putting him in his place</em>. </p><p> </p><p>"Close the door behind you," he says. </p><p>For a few seconds, Glen doesn't do anything.</p><p>Then, the door clangs shut.</p><p> </p><p>"The fuck do you want, Ace?" the dockworker growls, and Ace revels in the fear and panic that simmers beneath his voice.</p><p>Ace smirks at him. "Just wanted a friendly chat with you, Glen. No need to worry."</p><p><em>You filthy rat</em>, he deliberately does not say</p><p> </p><p><em>I should take over from here</em>, Kim says.</p><p><em>But I want to play around with him some more</em>, Ace hisses. </p><p>Still, he steps back and lets Kim take over.</p><p> </p><p>Turning around, Kim leans against the rooftop railing and looks straight at Glen. </p><p>"You told Evrart everything," he states plainly.</p><p>All the blood drains from Glen's face.</p><p> </p><p>"W-What?! I...I never spoke to that fucking pig---"</p><p>Kim sighs. </p><p>"Lie to me again and I'll throw you off the roof," he says quietly.</p><p> </p><p><em>I like that line</em>, Ace says.</p><p><em>Thank you</em>, Kim replies. </p><p> </p><p>Glen shuts up at that, and he looks so terrified that Kim suspects that he just might start throwing punches out of sheer panic.</p><p>... Which would just make it easier for him to throw Glen off the roof. But anyway.</p><p> </p><p>"Relax, Glen. I'm not here to kill you," Kim says. "I'm just here to...talk."</p><p>Glen gives him a wide-eyed look. "T-talk?? About what?"</p><p>Before Kim replies, he thinks about the ruined waterfront again, and about the four bodies lying in their own puddles of blood...</p><p>He doesn't think about there being a fifth, or a sixth, or a seventh, because Kim would never be able to forgive himself if that happened.</p><p> </p><p>"I want to talk about Titus," he eventually says.</p><p>Glen's eyes snap to his face.</p><p>"What?" he says, his voice shocked and disbelieving. "Why'd you wanna talk about Hardie?"</p><p> </p><p>Kim waves him over to the railing and turns to face the waterfront again.</p><p>Glen hesitates for a few moments, but he eventually joins Kim while keeping a safe distance between them.</p><p>"You don't know what you've just unleashed, Glen," Kim tells him. "You told Evrart what happened..."</p><p>He glances over at the blonde.</p><p>"And he told my family," Kim says quietly.</p><p> </p><p>Glen stares at him, absolutely terrified. </p><p>"S-so what if he told your fucking family?? We'll handle anything they throw our way---"</p><p>Kim actually chuckles at that.</p><p> </p><p>Glen looks at him like he just grew a second head.</p><p>"Sorry, Glen. I didn't mean to laugh," Kim says. "But no. The Hardie Boys won't be able to handle it, because you guys will get mowed down by bullets before you can even put your fists up," he says solemnly. </p><p>Glen looks like he's about to piss himself out of fear.</p><p> </p><p>"You didn't think about the consequences of your actions when you went to Evrart," he says, peering into Glen's terrified eyes. "You just wanted me out of the picture, didn't you?"</p><p>Glen says nothing.</p><p>Kim sighs. "Well congratulations, Glen. You've fucked all of us up," he says. "Me. You. Titus---"</p><p> </p><p>"<em>I didn't want this</em>!!!!!!!!!" Glen suddenly yells in a wild, broken voice. "I didn't---I didn't mean to---"</p><p>Silence rings out over the rooftop.</p><p>"You didn't mean for what, Glen?" Kim asks him in a quiet, merciless voice. </p><p> </p><p>Glen staggers away from the railing, his face filled with guilt, shame, and fear---</p><p>"I...I just wanted..."</p><p>He crumples to his knees.</p><p>"...I just wanted..."</p><p> </p><p>Kim remains quiet for a beat.</p><p>"...You just wanted Titus back," he says.</p><p> </p><p>Glen whips his head up. </p><p>"W-What?"</p><p> </p><p>"You just wanted Titus back," Kim repeats, slowly walking over to where Glen is kneeling. "You wanted him back, because you think I stole him from you."</p><p>Glen stares at him, his face a mess of snot and tears.</p><p> </p><p>Crouching down in front of the distraught dockworker, Kim reaches into his pocket, takes out his handkerchief...</p><p>And offers it to Glen.</p><p> </p><p>Glen stares at his hand.</p><p>"He never left you," Kim tells him quietly, "And I want to make sure that you both stay alive when my family comes for me."</p><p> </p><p>Once again, he extends his handkerchief towards Glen.</p><p>"Will you help me do that?" Kim asks.</p><p> </p><p>A few seconds pass.</p><p>Then, Glen raises a pale, trembling hand...</p><p>And takes Kim's handkerchief.</p><p> </p><p>"What d'you need me to do?" Glen whispers.</p><p>Kim smiles. </p><p>Then, he tells Glen what to do.</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. A Door, Opened</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It's a fine Wednesday morning, and Evrart Claire is the happiest man in the world. </p>
<p>He's just arrived at the docks for another day of more-or-less honest work, and as he waddles up the stairs to his office, Evrart takes a moment to breathe in a big lungful of crisp, morning air. Contrary to popular belief, he's a man of simple pleasures: He likes his coffee black. He enjoys fishing on the weekends. He treats himself to a shot of brandy on special occasions. Admittedly, he indulges in a few luxuries every now and then, but so would any other man of his stature and renown.</p>
<p>So given his simple tastes, Evrart has every reason to be happy on a day like this. The air is fresh, the sky is blue, the sun is shining, and two days from now, his mortal enemy is going to die a violent death at the hands of a group of ruthless mercenaries. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>...So yes.</p>
<p>Evrart is <em>very</em> happy indeed. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>He whistles a jaunty little tune as he continues to make his way to his office. Along the way, he spots Easy Leo, who's already seated in his usual spot on top of a repainted container. Normally, Evrart would just ignore the old simpleton and head straight to work, but he's feeling so chipper today that he decides to stop and chat with Leo for a bit. </p>
<p>"Good morning, old chap!" Evrart shouts across the gap between them.  </p>
<p>"G'morning, Mr. Evrart!" Easy Leo waves at him cheerfully. "Fine day, ain't it?"</p>
<p>Evrart grins. "Yes, indeed! Would you happen to have a new song? I've never told you this, but your ditties always bring good cheer to my poor, weary soul."</p>
<p>"Why, I'd love to share a song with you, sir!" Easy Leo says. "But it might have to wait until later. Don't want to keep you from your meeting, after all!"</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Evrart's grin freezes in place.</p>
<p>"I'm sorry, Leo," he says, frowning in confusion. "I don't recall having an appointment this morning---"</p>
<p>He has that appointment with the detectives, of course, but that was still later in the afternoon...</p>
<p>Easy Leo scratches his head. "Eh? Then who's the gentleman who's waiting in your office right now?" </p>
<p> </p>
<p>All of Evrart's joy curdles into fear.</p>
<p>"What gentleman?" he hears himself ask.</p>
<p>Leo scratches his head. "Well, he walked into your office half an hour ago, and when I asked him if he had an appointment, he said yes---"</p>
<p>"I've told you already," Evrart says brusquely, his heart hammering in panic. "I don't have any damn appointments this morning, so just tell me what he looks like!"</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Leo blinks at him.</p>
<p>"Er... He looks like the mechanic who works at the Whirling," he says in a small, frightened voice.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>And if Evrart didn't feel afraid before, he sure as hell feels afraid now.</p>
<p>He slowly turns to look at the door to his office.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Given who's most likely waiting for him inside, Evrart realizes that the smartest thing to do right now would be to run away as fast as possible and never come back. </p>
<p>But then, he realizes three things: First, that there are precious documents in his office that contain detailed records of the...creative financial strategies that the Union has employed in the past four years under the Claires' illustrious leadership. Second, that the damn mobster probably won't risk committing another murder with those two detectives in town. And finally, that said mobster will be dead by the end of the week.</p>
<p>In other words, there's no reason for Evrart to feel afraid at all. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Stifling the anxiety that simmers in his ample gut, he puts on a brave face and marches up to his container.</p>
<p>"Hope you have a good day, Mr. Evrart!" Leo crows, completely oblivious to his boss' anxiety.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>As Evrart grasps the handle of the container door, he's mortified to find his palms already slick with sweat. </p>
<p><em>Nothing to be afraid of, old chap</em>, he tells himself as he wipes his hands on his slacks. <em>Just open the damn door and get this over with.</em></p>
<p>He takes a deep breath to steel his nerves.</p>
<p>Then, Evrart opens the door and steps into his office.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>As he crosses the threshold, the first thing that Evrart sees is his desk, which looks just as cluttered as he left it yesterday.</p>
<p>The second thing that he sees is Ace.</p>
<p>The third thing that he sees is where Ace is seated.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>And then Evrart sees red.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>What many people don't realize about the Union foreman's office is that everything within it---the furniture, the decorations, the wallpaper, even the lighting---was specifically designed by the Claire brothers to amplify the power difference between whoever's seated behind the giant desk (i.e. Evrart or his twin brother Edgar) and the poor, unfortunate soul who's seated in front of it. The Backbreaker™ '48, more commonly known as the Torture Chair, is the most obvious object that serves this purpose, but there are other more subtle, yet equally effective details that they've included too, like the barely perceptible slope of the floor, or the deliberate positioning of the ceiling light above the Torture Chair so that it's occupant dwells in the light while Evrart gets to judge them from the shadows...</p>
<p>So, given the very deliberate layout of his office, it's only natural that when Evrart sees Ace seated in the cushy, ergonomic office chair behind the Union foreman's desk, he almost froths at the mouth at the mobster's flagrant violation of a sacred space that belongs to Evrart and Evrart alone---</p>
<p>(And Edgar too, of course, but that's beside the point.)</p>
<p> </p>
<p>"Good morning, Evrart," Ace says. "Took you long enough to get here."</p>
<p>"Ace," Evrart hisses out through gritted teeth. "What the hell are you doing in my office?"</p>
<p> </p>
<p>If the mobster is intimidated by the venom in Evrart's voice, then he doesn't show it.</p>
<p>Instead, he just leans back in the chair---<em>Evrart's</em> chair---and crosses his legs.</p>
<p>"Don't worry," Ace says with cold contempt. "I just want to talk to you. Man-to-man."</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Then, the gangster does the most sadistic thing that he could possibly do to Evrart in this situation.</p>
<p>He gestures towards the Backbreaker™.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Evrart doesn't move an inch.</p>
<p>"Oh no, mister," he hisses. "You don't get to boss me around in my own office, you---you <em>presumptuous prick</em>."</p>
<p>Ace just gives him a deadpan look.</p>
<p>Then, he reaches into his jacket...</p>
<p>And pulls out a gun.</p>

<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    
  </p>
</div><p>Evrart barks out a hysterical laugh.</p>
<p>"Don't be stupid, Ace," he sniggers. "I just have to breathe in your direction, and those detectives will come sniffing around like the nosy pigs that they are."</p>
<p>Ace shrugs. "That may be true," he says, "but you can't breathe in their direction if you're dead."</p>
<p> </p>
<p>All of Evrart's bravado vanishes into thin air.</p>
<p>As he stares on in mute terror, Ace gently places the gun on the table and points its glinting barrel towards Evrart's chest.</p>
<p>Then, he gestures towards the Backbreaker™ once more. </p>
<p>"Have a seat, Claire" he says.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Evrart looks at the Backbreaker.</p>
<p>Then, he looks at the gun on the desk. </p>
<p>Finally, he looks at Ace.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>And when Ace meets his gaze with a look of cold and cruel patience, Evrart quashes down the overwhelming urge to bolt out of his office.</p>
<p>Clearing his throat, he loosens the too-tight collar of his suit and reluctantly pads towards the Torture Chair.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>As he approaches the Backbreaker, it dawns on Evrart that maybe, just maybe, this is the divine retribution that he deserves for forcing  hundreds, if not thousands, of people to sit in the infernal contraption. He always felt genuine glee at the sight of their pain, as though every excruciating second was a personal victory for him. Evrart has made grown men weep in that chair, big, strong men who could have easily crushed him into a bloody pulp in a fair fight.</p>
<p>But among all of the chair's unfortunate occupants, Evrart has encountered only one man who seemed immune to the its effects, who was able to sit on the Backbreaker™ for a full hour without even breaking a sweat, as though the Torture Chair was nothing compared to the unimaginable physical agony that he's endured in the past...</p>
<p> </p>
<p>After what seems both like a second and an eternity, Evrart finally finds himself standing in front of the hellish piece of furniture.</p>
<p>Then, very, very slowly, he begins to lower his gargantuan backside into the Backbreaker's gaping jaws.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>As he jams his massive weight onto the chair, it groans and creaks beneath him like an old, overburdened dockworker, and for a moment, Evrart is gripped by the wild and desperate hope that it'll just collapse into a pile of screws and scrap metal beneath him---</p>
<p>But to his utter dismay, it manages to accommodate his full weight without even a single crack in its aluminum frame.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Now, Evrart has experienced his fair share of pain and torture in his life. In their younger years, he and his brother were the favorite targets of the neighborhood bullies, who spent many a summer's day stuffing the both of them into trash cans and kicking them around like gigantic, wailing footballs. He'd had his face smashed in plenty of times by goons of all shapes and sizes, and let's not even talk about the aches and pains that come with having a body that's far too massive for human joints to support...</p>
<p>But now, as the Backbreaker™ slowly, but methodically, begins to violate the tender flesh of his backside, Evrart realizes that this is a whole new level of pain that he never knew was possible.</p>
<p>He tries to keep a straight face, but his eyes start to cross within the first thirty seconds.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>"It's not so bad, when you get used to it," Ace says, his voice filtering through the agony that clouds Evrart's mind. "But do let me know if it gets too much so that I can put you out of your misery."</p>
<p>Even as he hears those chilling words, Evrart realizes that the sooner the mobster leaves his office, the sooner he can get out of this goddamned chair with his spine still intact. </p>
<p>"What do you want, Ace?" he manages to hiss out through gritted teeth.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Ace leans forward and rests his elbows on the desk, and Evrart's eyes automatically dart towards the gun that's just inches away from the mobster's hand... </p>
<p>"You told Jack what happened," Ace says.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Evrart winces.</p>
<p>"I don't know what you're talking---"</p>
<p>Ace reaches for the gun.</p>
<p>"Yes! Yes, I told him!" Evrart blurts out. "But only because Glen told me first! This is all his fault, not mine!"</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Ace's hand moves away from the gun.  </p>
<p>"I've already spoken to Glen," he says. "And we've managed to reach an...understanding."</p>
<p>That last word ominously hangs in the air for a long while.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>"So what, the dumb blonde gets to walk free while I get a gun pointed at my face???" Evrart babbles indignantly.</p>
<p>"No. He'll still pay for what he did," Ace says. "But at least he's <em>willing</em> to pay for it."</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Then, Ace picks up the gun and cradles it in his hands. </p>
<p>"The question is, Evrart..."</p>
<p>He cocks the gun. </p>
<p>"Are you willing to pay for it too?"</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>Two hours later, Kim steps out of the Union foreman's office and dusts off his hands.</p>
<p> </p>
<p><em>A job well done, if I say so myself,</em> Ace says smugly. </p>
<p><em>I'm just grateful we didn't have to kill him,</em> Kim replies. </p>
<p><em>Are you kidding? That corrupt hog deserves to die,</em> Ace points out.<em> In fact, we should go back in and---</em></p>
<p> </p>
<p>"Oh, hello mister!" Easy Leo says with a wave. "Hope your meeting with Mr. Evrart went well!"</p>
<p>Kim quickly turns around and gives Leo a polite smile. "Yes, it did," he says. "Thank you for letting me wait in his office, Leo."</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Easy Leo blinks at him. "Eh? How'd you know my name, mister?" </p>
<p><em>His dementia's getting worse,</em> Kim notes sadly.</p>
<p>"Mr. Evrart told me about you during our meeting," he lies. "He said you were one of his best workers."</p>
<p>"Oh! Well," The old man chuckles. "That's very kind of him to say!"</p>
<p> </p>
<p><em>Cut the small talk and tell the old fool about the squealing pig in the office</em>, Ace reminds him. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>"By the way, Leo. Would you mind calling some of your friends over to help Mr. Claire out of his office? He's feeling a bit...indisposed," Kim says with mock concern. </p>
<p>Leo gives him a baffled look. "Really? But he looked fine this morning---"</p>
<p>Kim coughs into his fist. "Yes. Well...His legs started cramping up during our meeting, and he asked me to go and get some help."</p>
<p>Leo gasps in horror and scrambles up from the floor. "O-Of course! I'll go and get some guys right now!" he says.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>As he watches Easy Leo hurry away, Kim sighs and takes one last look at the container behind him.</p>
<p><em>That's one less loose end for us to worry about,</em> he thinks. </p>
<p>Ace scoffs. <em>All that's left are those detectives. </em></p>
<p> </p>
<p>Suddenly, the memory of Harry's smiling face flashes through Kim's mind, and his heart stutters in his chest.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Ace keeps quiet.</p>
<p>When he speaks to Kim again, his voice is mournful and low.</p>
<p><em>You know you can't be with him</em>.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Kim closes his eyes.</p>
<p><em>...Yes</em>, he replies.</p>
<p>
  <em>Yes, I know.</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>As he finally walks away from Evrart's container, Kim buries his pain beneath the blood-soaked earth of his heart and refuses to mourn for the love that he will never have.</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>Meanwhile, in one of the rooms on the second floor of the Whirling-in-Rags, Jean Vicquemare glares at Harry Du Bois' frowning face.</p>
<p>"For fuck's sake, shitkid, just make your damn move already," he mutters.</p>
<p>"Just give me a second, Jean," Harry says, stroking his chin thoughtfully as he studies the mess of tokens, cards, and cardboard pieces that's strewn in front of them.</p>
<p>Jean sighs. He would have been more willing to let Harry take his time if it weren't for the fact that they've spent <em>five </em><em>fucking hours</em> playing a <em>single round</em> of this fucking board game.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>This goddamned travesty started when Harry asked him for a favor while they were eating breakfast. </p>
<p>"Hey, Jean," he said. "Would you mind playing a round of Suzerainty with me? I'm planning to use it to get info out of Kim, and...well," Harry fiddled with his coffee cup. "I have a feeling that just memorizing the player's manual won't be enough for me to win against him."</p>
<p>Being the gracious, naive idiot that he was, Jean shrugged and said yes. It was only one round, after all, and he didn't really have much to do before his meeting with E.C. in the afternoon. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>They decided to play in Jean's room, since it had a larger floor space compared to Harry's, and Harry didn't seem terrified of it anymore. Learning the game was easy enough: Harry had spent the entire night reading through the game manual, and Jean was nothing but a quick study. They spent the first hour familiarizing themselves with the game's mechanics and convoluted point system, and by the end of it, both of them were feeling confident enough to play a round. </p>
<p>The second hour went by in relative peace. Harry decided to focus on harvesting apricots from Safre and marble from Ile Mara, while Jean gathered sugar from the Semenine islands and cocaine leaves from Supramundi and Saramiriza. They both managed to fulfill a handful of contracts, and Jean eventually accumulated enough tokens to build three markets in Revachol. </p>
<p>Harry just glowered silently at Jean's markets, as if he were willing them to burst into flames using only the power of his mind.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>They spent the third hour in a cruel war of attrition, which Jean triggered by channeling his inner drug lord and hooking Harry's workers on magenta cocaine. Harry retaliated by withholding sugar from Jean's provinces, which led to a severe famine that undermined the efficiency of Jean's workers. By the fourth hour, they were arguing over the universal basic human rights of little cardboard laborers, and it was only then that Jean realized that a game of this depth and complexity should never, <em>ever</em> be introduced to his fact-freak of a boyfriend.</p>
<p>"Harry," Jean said, interrupting his partner's passionate tirade about the importance of recognizing the basic human dignity of all board game tokens, "don't you dare mention this game to Trant, or I will make sure that you die a slow and painful death."</p>
<p>Harry frowned at him in confusion. "Trant? Why would I---"</p>
<p>Jean glared at him.</p>
<p>"...Okay. Never going to mention this to Trant. Got it."</p>
<p> </p>
<p>They took a short break on the fifth hour to order lunch. And Harry finally comes to a decision just as Jean is finishing off a ham-and-cheese sandwich. </p>
<p>"Okay, I know what to do," Harry says with a resolute glimmer in his eyes. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>And with that, Harry proceeds to engage Jean in a swift and brutal trade war that completely wipes out the cocaine empire that Jean has painstakingly built over the past three hours.</p>
<p>Needless to say, Jean is not pleased.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>"What do you have to say for yourself, shitkid?" Jean growls as he tightens his chokehold on Harry's neck.</p>
<p>Harry flails like a landed fish and slowly turns purple from oxygen deprivation. "S-sorry for destroying your cocaine empire, Jean," he gasps out against Jean's elbow.</p>
<p>"Damn right, you'd better be sorry! I invested a lot in those workers! They had the right to universal basic education and access to all the fucking coke that they wanted!" </p>
<p>Harry frantically nods against his bulging bicep, and Jean waits for his eyes to start rolling to the back of his head before releasing him with an angry huff. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Despite his efforts to hamper Harry's victory through physical violence, Jean is soundly defeated when Harry succeeds in building that damn monument in Revachol. </p>
<p>"That was a close game, Jean," Harry says with a grin. </p>
<p>Jean rolls his eyes. "Close game, my ass. You won by ten fucking points, you deranged apricot baron."</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Harry shrugs and starts to clear the pieces from the board "Well, if I won against you, I might have a chance against Kim."</p>
<p>"How are you planning on using this to get info out of him anyway?" Jean asks as he helps Harry put the cardboard pieces into their little bags. "We just spent five hours on one round, and I doubt that he'd want to play a board game with you for that long later."</p>
<p>"Well, I was going to play the fast version with him---"</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Jean freezes.</p>
<p>"...The what?" he asks in a low, dangerous voice.</p>
<p>"The fast version," Harry says, obliviously careening towards his own demise. "The player who gets ten victory points first wins---"</p>
<p>The rest of his sentence gets cut off when Jean suplexes him into the floor.</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>At ten minutes before 4 o' clock, Jean steps out of the Whirling and hurries to the docks. As far as Harry knows, he's just taking a stroll along the waterfront to cool his head and to enjoy the depressing sights that the neighborhood has to offer. He does feel guilty about hiding the note from Harry, but Jean knows that his partner already has enough things to worry about, and this is probably something Jean can handle on his own.</p>
<p>He arrives at the harbor gates a few minutes later,  and takes a moment to stare at the imposing structure. The gates looked like the massive, metal jaws of a mechanical dragon whose roar sounds like the hiss and clang of heavy machinery. He spots a group of dockworkers huddling over their cigarettes beside the gate, and he returns the suspicious glances that they're shooting at him with a glare of his own---</p>
<p> </p>
<p>"Hey there, officer!"</p>
<p>Startled, Jean looks up and sees a Mesque man precariously seated on the railing of the staircase to his left. The man looks more like a boiadero than a dockworker---He's casually, even stylishly, dressed in a blue shirt, canvas pants, and leather shoes. There's a red tie knotted haphazardly around his neck, and a large red hat perched on his head. </p>
<p>Jean's first thought is that based on this man's fashion sense, he and Harry would have gotten along famously.</p>
<p>His second thought is that he has no idea who this man is, so he'd better start asking some questions now.</p>
<p>"You calling me, punk?" he hollers up at the boiadero.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>"Yeah!" the stranger says. "You're a detective from the RCM right?"</p>
<p>"Yeah, I am. Who's asking?"</p>
<p>The Mesque man grins. "Call Me Mañana, at your service!" he says with a flourish of his hat.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Jean blinks.</p>
<p>"Pardon?" he asks, slightly baffled as to why this stranger's asking him to call tomorrow.</p>
<p>"No, I mean---Ugh." The stranger visibly deflates at Jean's confusion. "Just come on up here and I'll explain." </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Even though he's still wary of the stranger's intentions, Jean obediently goes up the stairs. </p>
<p>"Hey there, officer," the boiadero says. "Name's Call Me Mañana, and I got a message for you from the Boss."</p>
<p>Several questions pop up in Jean's mind: "What's with the weird name? What message? Who's your Boss?" </p>
<p>If Harry was here, he'd have overwhelmed the poor man by asking all of those questions at once. Thankfully, Mañana only has to deal with Jean, who  asks questions one by one like a normal person. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>"Who's your boss?"</p>
<p>Mañana chuckles. "None other than Mr. Evrart Claire himself, my friend."</p>
<p><em>Evrart Claire...E.C.</em>, Jean realizes. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>"And why can't he tell me the message himself? I think I'm supposed to meet him right now," he says.</p>
<p>Mañana shrugs. "He had to leave early because he wasn't feeling well," he says. "His health's not very good, 'cause of his...you know." Then, he performs several gestures to show that the Union boss has the physical stature and weight of a small elephant.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>"...I see," Jean says, feeling slightly disappointed at having lost such an important lead.</p>
<p>"So, do you wanna hear the message or not?" </p>
<p>Jean sighs and crosses his arms. He might as well hear what the Union boss has to say for himself...</p>
<p>"Sure, let's hear it."</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Rather than answering Jean right away, Mañana reaches into his pockets and takes something out.</p>
<p>"Here, officer. Catch!" he says, throwing the object towards Jean, who snatches it out of the air with one hand. The object feels small and metallic, and one of its ends digs into the flesh of his palm...</p>
<p>When Jean opens his hand, he's surprised to see a small, brass key attached to a labelled keychain. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>"The boss says, 'Open the door,'" Mañana says.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>And if Jean wasn't confused before, he sure as hell is confused now. </p>
<p>"Wait, what? That doesn't make any sense. What door is he talking about, and why the hell should I open it?"</p>
<p>To his utter frustration, Mañana just shrugs nonchalantly. "You're a detective, right? Maybe there's something behind that door that'll help you solve a case."</p>
<p> </p>
<p>That must have been the most unhelpful answer that Jean has ever received in his entire career.</p>
<p>"Did your boss say anything else?" he asks, hoping that Mañana would throw him a bone or two.</p>
<p>But the boiadero just shakes his head and goes, "Nope. He just told me to give the key to the detectives and tell them to open the door. That's all."</p>
<p> </p>
<p>As the seconds tick by, Jean realizes that this definitely wasn't how he imagined this meeting would play out. Not only did his informant ditch him, they also left him with cryptic instructions about opening a door without even bothering to tell him where the hell that fucking door was. </p>
<p>He's tempted to return the key to Mañana and tell him that his boss can shove the key up his fat, absent ass.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>But then...</p>
<p>The key glints in his hand like a whispered answer to all of his questions.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Jean massages the bridge of his nose.</p>
<p>"Tell your boss I'll think about it," he says, pocketing the key. "I'm still a fucking cop, and last time I checked, breaking and entering are punishable by law."</p>
<p>Mañana gives him a lazy salute. "Will do, Detective. Good luck with whatever you're up to! Looks like you'll need it."</p>
<p>"Yeah," Jean says wearily. "I really do, don't I?" </p>
<p> </p>
<p>As he makes his way down the stairs, Jean fiddles with the key in his pocket and wonders about what he's gotten himself into. The good news is that he hadn't needed to punch anyone in the face, even if he was tempted to push that smug boiadero off his perch for being so unhelpful. The bad news is that instead of getting answers, he got more damn questions, and Dolores knows that he and Harry already have their fair share of those right now...</p>
<p>Jean waits until he gets back to the roundabout before taking out the key from his pocket and examining it closely. It's small enough to fit in his palm, and it seems new and unused. There's a plastic, labelled keychain attached to it, and there are three numbers written on the label in black ink---</p>
<p>
  <strong>357</strong>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Jean frowns. If he were to guess, it's most likely a room number. But even how the hell is he supposed to find the building that it's---</p>
<p>Suddenly, it hits him.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>"Unit 357," he mutters under his breath. </p>
<p>Then, he turns and looks towards the decrepit-looking apartment building behind the Whirling.</p>
<p><em>What are the chances?</em> he thinks to himself. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>He spends the next few minutes pacing across the roundabout and pondering what he should do next. On the one hand, what he told Mañana is true--breaking and entering <em>is</em> punishable by law, and it would be a huge blow to their investigation, not to mention his entire career, if he were caught committing such a flagrant crime.</p>
<p>On the other hand, the RCM doesn't have the authority to issue search warrants, so he won't be able to legally access Kim's apartment without the mechanic's permission anyway.</p>
<p>And, technically speaking, Evrart didn't tell him to enter Kim's apartment. He just told him to open the door, which is pretty harmless, now that Jean thinks about it. Sure, Kim might get alarmed when he comes back tonight and sees his apartment door gaping wide open, but...that's it.</p>
<p>It's not like Jean was going to snoop around---</p>
<p> </p>
<p><em>But then why open the door if you're not going to enter? </em>a tiny voice hisses in the back of his mind.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He stops pacing.</p>
<p>Then, he chews on the inside of his cheek.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>...Okay, so maybe he does want to snoop around Kim's apartment.</p>
<p>But he definitely wasn't going to touch anything. He was just going to...look around. To see if there was anything suspicious. Which there probably wasn't going to be, given how easily Kim shared his address with them.</p>
<p>And besides, Kim is out on a date with Harry right now, which means that Jean has plenty of time to look around and get the hell out of Kim's apartment before he returned.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>As he comes to a decision, Jean holds the key up  and stares at it for a few seconds.</p>
<p>Then, before he can change his mind, he strides off towards the Capeside Apartments.</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>Standing at the very edge of the waterfront, the Capeside Apartments are a crumbling monument to the tragic decline of the once-glorious district of Martinaise. Eight out of its twelve floors were demolished by artillery fire during the Antecentennial Revolution, and  even now, Jean can still see the hundreds, if not thousands, of bullet holes that pockmark the building's dilapidated facade.</p>
<p>When he arrives at the apartments, Jean is relieved to see that there doesn't seem to be anyone loitering by the entrance. And what's even better, someone left the front door open, and he's able to slip inside without anyone noticing him.</p>
<p>As he passes by the apartment units, he hears the chaotic sounds of domestic life coming from within them. The loud snores of a passed-out alcoholic, the passionate monologue of a young communist, the furious yells of a fighting couple, the gentle lullaby of a mother rocking her baby to sleep...</p>
<p>Jean thinks that those sounds serve as an excellent summary of the fucked up, yet strangely poignant, life of a typical Revacholian.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>After going up two flights of stairs, he finally finds himself standing in front of Unit 357, which is located at the very end of a long, open hallway that overlooks the Whirling's backyard. The door is pretty much like every other door in this apartment: old, wooden, and covered in faded greenish-grey paint. The small keyhole on its handle silently beckons to him, and as Jean suspected, the key that Mañana gave him fits into it perfectly.</p>
<p>He glances down the hallway to make sure that no one sees him.</p>
<p>Then, he opens the door and steps inside.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>As the door clicks shut, Jean takes a moment to let his eyes adjust to the dim light within Kim's apartment. It's a neat little affair---pretty much a shoebox that's partitioned into a kitchen, a living room, and another room behind a closed door that Jean guesses would be Kim's bedroom. The fading light of the dusky afternoon sun shines through the small window in the living room, bathing the entire unit in a muted mix of orange light and murky shadows.</p>
<p>Instinctively, Jean reaches for the light switch by the door, but he stops himself. If he opens the lights, then someone might see him through the window, which would pretty much fuck up this entire operation. Thankfully, it isn't that dark yet, and Kim's apartment is so small that Jean can finish snooping around before he loses daylight.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He stands by the door and surveys the living room. It's definitely the cleanest bachelor's pad that he's ever seen, and that's including his own apartment. There's not much in it---just a ratty-looking couch, a low coffee table, a small dining table with two chairs, and a bookshelf that contains what appears to be a bizarre array of knick-knacks. When Jean approaches the bookshelf to have a better look, he sees that the top shelf is occupied by a neat row of old paperbacks, while the second shelf contains a stack of unopened FALN packages, as well as an old, but well-maintained radio. Finally, the bottom shelf seems to be covered in...rocks?</p>
<p>Jean frowns. He's morbidly curious about why a no-nonsense man like Kim would have a rock collection, but everyone's entitled to their own quirky little hobbies, so he'll just let this slide. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>After checking the couch and the dining table for any suspicious-looking objects, Jean peeks into the kitchen. There's a refrigerator humming in the far corner, and a small gas stove right across from it. He's tempted to open the fridge, just in case Kim's hiding any jars of pickled human body parts, but he did promise that he wouldn't touch anything in the apartment, so...</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Sighing, Jean returns to the living room and eyes the bedroom door. It's his last stop, and to be honest, he's pretty relieved that he hasn't found anything incriminating in Kim's apartment so far. Maybe he's just a poor guy who got dragged into this whole mess. Maybe he's not even involved in this mess at all, and Harry's free to wine and dine him without worrying about whether his current infatuation is a murder suspect.</p>
<p>And Dolores knows that after all of the shit that they've been through together, Jean just wants his partner to find some fucking happiness with someone.</p>
<p> </p>
<p><em>Come on, you softie. Let's wrap this up</em>, Jean tells himself as he wipes off the silly smirk that suddenly appeared on his face.</p>
<p>When he opens the bedroom door, he's grateful to find another window by the bed, which lets some light in so that he can see the room clearly. There's a door to his right that most likely leads to the bathroom. As for the furniture, Kim's bed looks small, but comfortable and neatly made. A tall wardrobe stands against one wall, while a wooden desk and a chair occupy the space right beneath the window. And on the desk, there's---</p>
<p>Jean's eyes widen.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>As he steps into the bedroom, the door to Kim's apartment opens by just the tiniest crack...</p>
<p>But Jean doesn't see it.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Instead, he slowly pads over to Kim's desk and looks at the blue, spiral notebook on top of it. There's nothing written on the cover, which looks worn and well-used, but Jean has the feeling that this is either Kim's accounting ledger (because come on, the man totally looks like an accountant) or his personal journal.</p>
<p>His fingers twitch absently on his sides, tingling with eagerness to finally pick up the damn notebook so that he could pore through it like the damn detective that he is. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>As Jean wages an internal battle over whether or not he should read Kim's journal, someone slips into the living room. </p>
<p> </p>
<p><em>Okay, I'll just...take a peek</em>, Jean tells himself. <em>I won't even pick it up. I'll just open the cover and flip through the pages.</em></p>
<p>But just as he's reaching for the notebook, Jean spots something on the upper corner of the desk. It's small, metallic, and glints even in the muted light of the room.</p>
<p>He peers closer and realizes that it's---</p>
<p> </p>
<p>A ring.</p>
<p>And not just any ring.</p>
<p>A ring that he's seen before, on the cold, swollen fingers of a dead man and a dead woman---</p>
<p> </p>
<p>"What do you think you're doing, pig?"</p>
<p>Startled, Jean whirls around---</p>
<p> </p>
<p>In the split second before the wooden bat cracks against his skull, he sees a pair of large, shining eyes, an elfin face, a wide, vicious grin---</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Then, pain.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>And darkness.</p>
<p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. An Invitation, Accepted</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hello, everyone! Before we start, I'd like to take this chance to thank you all for following the story up to this point. It's been a long journey (~55K words as of the last chapter), and the fact that you're still here is both baffling and reassuring. I wouldn't have gotten this far without all of your kind words of support and encouragement, so truly: thank you!</p><p>Now, on with the show!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <hr/><p> </p><p>Kim's earliest memories are the dying screams of his mother.</p><p>He remembers only fragments of what happened to her. He remembers being small—small enough to fit in a cramped, dark space that might have been a chest or a cabinet. He remembers hearing a voice telling him that he should stay inside, no matter what he sees, no matter what he hears, her precious one must stay inside— </p><p>Will he do that for Mother?</p><p> </p><p>He remembers nodding.</p><p> </p><p>He remembers slender hands cupping his cheek and smoothing his hair.</p><p>He remembers lips being pressed to his forehead.</p><p> </p><p>Then, the door shut in his face, and the screams started moments later.</p><p> </p><p>He doesn't know how long he stayed there. It could have been minutes. Hours. Days. But what he does know is that even when men started laughing and the screams were cut off by a gunshot and there was nothing left but the darkness and the frantic thudding of his own heart— </p><p>He didn't go out.</p><p> </p><p>He doesn't really remember how he ended up in the orphanage. One moment, he was huddled in the darkness, telling himself to not go out, to <em>never</em> go out— </p><p>The next thing he knew, he was seated on a lumpy cot, and there was an old lady feeding him porridge.</p><p> </p><p>He spent the next four years at the Clara Pulmonem Orphanage with dozens of other children who were just like him: small, scarred survivors of a war that killed their families and left them with nothing but the clothes on their backs. The Dolorian Sisters of Peace did their best to take care of them all, but they were only twelve nuns, and the number of orphans who were left at their doorstep grew with each passing day.</p><p>Life at the orphanage was chaotic, but happy. The older children helped the sisters take care of the younger ones, and Kim remembers one girl in particular who watched over him like a surrogate mother. She fed him, bathed him, clothed him, and taught him how to read and write. They all had nightmares, and Kim was no exception. Whenever he’d wake up in his bed covered in tears and cold sweat, he’d run to her room and burrow under her covers, and she would always lull him back to sleep with a gentle Dolorian hymn.  </p><p>He remembers having friends—a buck-toothed little boy with a scar over his left eye, a freckled girl whose left arm ended in a stump, and many, many other children who carried their own souvenirs from the war. They spent their mornings dozing off in their lessons and their afternoons running amok in the orphanage garden like a flock of little gremlins. They dared each other to climb the old oak tree in the backyard. They played hide-and-seek in the run-down chapel. They laughed and cried and fought and made up and did all of that all over again the next day.</p><p>In other words, they acted like children—scarred, wounded, and broken children, but children nonetheless. And they sure as hell weren’t going to let some stupid war ruin their fun.</p><p>Those were good years. Happy years.</p><p> </p><p>Then, Father came for him.</p><p>And those happy years came to an end. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>It's Wednesday afternoon, and Kim is standing in front of his open wardrobe with a towel around his hips and a thoughtful look on his face. He decided to close up shop early today so that he’d have more time to get ready for his...meeting with Harry— </p><p><em>It’s another fucking date, you moron</em>, Ace mutters.</p><p>Kim rolls his eyes.</p><p><em>Fine</em>.</p><p> </p><p>He decided to close up shop early today so that he’d have more time to get ready for his <em>date</em> with Harry, and he’s now in the most crucial part of his preparations...</p><p><em>Formal or casual?</em> he asks Ace.</p><p><em>Casual. Everyone will call you Ace if they see you in a suit</em>, Ace replies.</p><p> </p><p>Kim nods. <em>Sexy or bad-ass?</em></p><p><em>Both</em>, Ace says. <em>Black leather jacket, mesh shirt— </em></p><p><em>Jacket, yes. Mesh shirt, no,</em> Kim insists. <em>We’ll freeze to death. </em></p><p> </p><p>Then, the image of Harry lying passed out on the floor at the sight of him in a mesh shirt flits through Kim's mind.</p><p><em>And besides, </em>he adds, <em>we just want to distract the detective, not kill him. </em></p><p> </p><p>Ace cackles.</p><p><em>If we <strong>really</strong> want to distract him</em>, he says in a low, husky voice, <em>then we should take him home with us tonight.</em></p><p> </p><p>Suddenly, Kim remembers large, warm hands covering his own; a gentle kiss being pressed onto his knuckles; ocean-green eyes smoldering with hunger...</p><p>To his dismay, his ears start to burn.  </p><p><em>This morning, you told me that we can't be with him, </em>he tells Ace.<em> Now, you want us to sleep with him. Which one is it, really? </em></p><p> </p><p>Ace doesn't reply.</p><p>Taking advantage of his silence, Kim puts on an outfit that manages to achieve his three primary goals, namely, to look bad-ass without being edgy, to look sexy without looking slutty, and to look casual without looking like trash.</p><p>He’s looking at himself in the mirror behind his wardrobe door when Ace speaks up again.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>We'll be dead by Friday.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Kim freezes.</p><p> </p><p><em>So if there's something that we want to do</em>, Ace continues quietly, <em>then we'd better do it tonight.</em></p><p> </p><p>Kim stares at himself in the mirror for a long while.</p><p> </p><p>The man who stares back at him could have passed for an accountant. Or maybe a mechanic. Or any other job that involved putting things in order, or putting broken things back together...</p><p>Like a detective.</p><p>A detective, just like Harry.</p><p> </p><p>But this man’s eyes are far too weary for him to be any of those.</p><p>And his hands...</p><p>His hands are stained with too much blood for him to put anything back together.</p><p> </p><p>As he stands barefoot in front of his wardrobe mirror, Kim realizes that he’s tired.</p><p>So fucking tired.</p><p> </p><p>He’s tired of running away from his family.</p><p>He’s tired of pretending to be a good man. </p><p>He’s tired of wanting things that he can never have.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>You want him.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Kim lets Ace's words echo through his heart.</p><p>Then, very, very slowly, he presses his forehead against the mirror and closes his eyes.</p><p> </p><p><em>Yes</em>, he finally admits. </p><p>
  <em>Yes, I do.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Ace says nothing for a while.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Well, guess what, Speedfreak...</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I think he wants you too. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Kim smiles.</p><p> </p><p>Ten minutes later, as he steps out of his apartment and heads to the waterfront, Kim mulls over whether he should invite Harry over to his flat tonight. He knows that Harry would say yes. And besides, even if he didn’t invite Harry over, the detective would probably insist on walking him home anyway...</p><p><em>If he tries to kiss us goodnight, I'm going to hijack your brain and drag him into the bedroom so we can finally have our way with him</em>, Ace warns.</p><p><em>Sure, go ahead,</em> Kim says. </p><p> </p><p>As he jogs down the staircase, Kim fails to notice the glint of binoculars on a nearby rooftop. </p><p>Meanwhile, in the darkness of his bedroom, the signet ring that he forgot to hide glints on his desk like a single, watchful eye.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - It's five minutes to 4 o' clock, and you're a nervous wreck</p><p><strong>COMPOSURE</strong> [Challenging: Success] - But only on the inside! On the outside, you look like a well-dressed, middle-aged man who's suffering from a mild case of constipation.</p><p><strong>VISUAL CALCULUS</strong> [Medium: Success] - Your heart rate is averaging 120 beats per minute. Your cortisol levels are through the roof, and you are perspiring at a rate of 15 g/min·m<sup>2</sup>. To avoid dehydration, it is recommended that you— </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - Throw myself into the ocean so that I can save myself from the mortification of messing up my best chance to get the truth out of Kim?????</p><p><strong>VISUAL CALCULUS</strong> - ...No. You just need to drink two glasses of water within the next thirty minutes.</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - Oh. Okay. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Being the punctual bastard that he is, Kim is about to arrive five minutes early to his appointment with Harry. Being late just isn't an option for him—Aside from being rude and unprofessional, it also violated one of his Father's favorite maxims: "Whoever is first in the field and awaits the coming of the enemy, will be fresh for the fight; whoever is second in the field and has to hasten to battle will arrive exhausted."</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><strong>PAIN THRESHOLD</strong> [Challenging: Failure] - This stupid little bowtie is strangling you like a tacky garrote.</p><p><strong>BOW KNOT</strong> - Excuse me??? First of all, I am <em>stylish</em>, not tacky. And second, I'll have you know that I'm here to fulfill a very important function— </p><p><strong>DRAMA</strong> - Indeed, sire! This fashionable neck accessory will increase our capacity to detect any duplicity from our beau-slash-potential-murder-suspect, the Magnificent Mechanic!!!</p><p><strong>LOGIC</strong> - Kim. He means Kim.</p><p><strong>DRAMA</strong> - As I said: The Magnificent Mechanic!!!</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><em>He could have just taught us, "The early bird catches the worm,"</em>  Ace mutters.</p><p>Kim smirks. <em>No chance. That saying would be too "Occidental" for him.</em></p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - Closing your eyes, you try to calm your nerves by taking a deep breath of ocean air.</p><p><strong>PERCEPTION</strong> [Medium: Success] - Crisp, briny air fills your lungs and douses the panic that fogs your mind. Your ears hone in on the sounds of the waterfront: the gentle, rhythmic lapping of the sea, the harsh squawks of the seagulls that circle above you, the distant roar of machinery coming from the docks...</p><p><strong>COMPOSURE</strong> - Don't worry. You're more than prepared for tonight.</p><p><strong>LOGIC</strong> - You've memorized all 42 pages of the Suzerainty rulebook.</p><p><strong>AUTHORITY</strong> - You beat Lt. Vicquemare during your practice match.</p><p><strong>SAVOIR FAIRE</strong> - You're wearing the perfect outfit. It's classy, but also heightens the skills that you'll need for your encounter with Kim.</p><p><strong>BOW KNOT</strong> - All of the classiness comes from me, by the way, so you're welcome!</p><p><strong>SAVOIR FAIRE</strong> - Actually, the little guy was just an afterthought, since your only other neck accessory's still with Lt. Vicquemare and it makes you see things from an alternate universe.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Ace expresses his personal opinion about their Father's inordinate love for all things Oriental by saying something absolutely filthy in Seolite that Kim will never utter in front of...well, anyone. </p><p>But as he approaches the viewing deck, Kim is surprised to discover that, for this particular battle, he's the second to arrive at the battlefield. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><strong>YOU</strong>- Thank you, gentlemen. I think...I think we might just be able to pull this off. </p><p><strong>VISUAL CALCULUS</strong> [Medium: Success] - After listening to that slew of information, your heart rate's down to a leisurely 95 beats per minute, and you are no longer sweating like a pig.</p><p><strong>ELECTROCHEMISTRY</strong> - And if you pull this off <em>really well</em>, you might even get to kiss him.</p><p><strong>VISUAL CALCULUS</strong> [Medium: Success] - Your heart rate shoots up to 120 beats per minute.</p><p><strong>ELECTROCHEMISTRY</strong> - Or maybe even invite him to your room and finally have your way with him— </p><p><strong>VISUAL CALCULUS</strong> [Medium: Success] - 135 beats per minute!</p><p><strong>COMPOSURE </strong>[Legendary: Failure] - You mentioned something about throwing yourself into the ocean before, right? Well, that might actually be a good idea, because your face is about to burst into flames.</p><p><strong>VOLITION</strong> [Legendary: Success] - Taking over.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>From this angle, Harry looks like a proud captain standing at the prow of his ship. He's looking out at the ocean with one hand perched on the deck railing, and the afternoon sun casts a warm, golden glow on his broad-shouldered silhouette...</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - Suddenly, your thoughts are replaced by a disturbingly vivid image of a vomiting seagull.</p><p><strong><em>WHAT THE—— </em></strong>????!!!!!</p><p><strong>LOGIC</strong> - This is your emergency anti-brain-frying mechanism. Very effective, isn't it?</p><p><strong>PERCEPTION</strong> - The fact that you're hearing seagulls right now makes it <em>really</em> easy to bring the image out of your long-term memory. </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - So...so whenever I think of making out with Kim, I'll see— </p><p><strong>VOLITION</strong> - Not all the time. Only if you don't want your mental capacities to be impaired by your blazing libido.</p><p><strong>ELECTROCHEMISTRY</strong> - <em>Oh thank god</em>. For a moment there, I thought you'd never be able to jack off to that mechanic ever again— </p><p><strong>CONCEPTUALIZATION</strong> [Easy: Success] - In the theater of your mind, a particularly rotund seagull begins to dry heave.</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - Turn it off! <em>Turn it off</em>!!!!!</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><em>Stop being such a sap and just go over there already</em>, Ace mutters.</p><p>After sweeping his gaze one last time over the wide plane of Harry's back, Kim walks over to the detective and clears his throat. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><strong>PERCEPTION</strong> - Your frantic thoughts are interrupted by a polite cough.</p><p><strong>COMPOSURE</strong> [Legendary: Success] - Thanks to me, you manage to not to jump out of your skin and make a fool out of yourself. Instead, your face adopts an expression of mild surprise, and you turn around to face whoever it is without tripping over your feet.</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - And when your eyes land on him...</p><p>You forget to breathe.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Harry looks absolutely <em>delectable</em> today. His hair is combed back, and his moustache and mutton chops look well-trimmed. He's clad in a muted brown suit jacket that highlights the breadth of his shoulders, as well as a crisp white shirt and a pair of cotton-blend pants that give him an air of authority.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><strong>KIM KITSURAGI</strong> - He stands in front of you like a devastating vision of light and darkness. He's wearing a plain white undershirt and a black leather jacket, the high collar of which accentuates the pale skin of his throat and the elegant arch of his neck. He's also clad in a pair of skinny, black jeans that hug his hips and show off the contour of his legs, and a pair of black, lace-up boots that look both sturdy and stylish.</p><p><strong>ELECTROCHEMISTRY</strong> [Trivial: Success] - He looks <em>devastatingly cool</em> and <em>absolutely ravishing</em>. </p><p><strong>BOW KNOT</strong> - In the face of this casual magnificence, your little purple bowtie shrivels up like a wilted flower.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>He's also wearing a little purple bowtie around his neck, which should look tacky on anyone else, but on Harry, it does a magnificent job of bringing out the green depths of his eyes.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><strong>AUTHORITY</strong> [Legendary: Success] - This is no time to doubt yourself! Yes, the mechanic looks extremely hot, but you look acceptably lukewarm!</p><p><strong>SAVOIR FAIRE</strong> - Were you trying to be reassuring? Because that wasn't very reassuring at all.</p><p><strong>COMPOSURE</strong> [Easy: Success] - Kim's looking at you with an amused look on his face, as if he's actually pleased by your blatant ogling. </p><p><strong>PERCEPTION</strong> [Challenging: Success] - Speaking of ogling, he just looked you over from head to toe...</p><p><strong>COMPOSURE</strong> [Challenging: Success] - ... and the corners of his lips quirk up by the tiniest fraction.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><em>You're staring</em>, Ace mutters. </p><p>Kim ignores him.</p><p><em>But then again,</em> <em>he's staring at you too,</em> Ace sighs.<em> So I guess we'll just stay here forever.</em></p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><strong>ELECTROCHEMISTRY</strong> [Medium: Success] - Heat simmers in his eyes, and you want nothing more than to drown in their warm, dark depths...</p><p><strong>VOLITION</strong> [Legendary: Success] - You have five seconds to get your act together before we bring out the seagull.</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - You wince and quickly gather your wits about you. </p><p>"Kim! You're...you're here," you say breathlessly.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>The thought that Harry wasn't sure if he was actually going to show up sends a twinge of pain through Kim's heart.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><strong>KIM KITSURAGI</strong> - He quirks an eyebrow at you. "Of course I'm here. Why would I miss a perfectly good opportunity to get a free dinner?"</p><p><strong>EMPATHY</strong> [Easy: Success] - There's a playful glint in his eyes and genuine fondness in his voice.</p><p><strong>DRAMA</strong> [Easy: Success] - Let us respond to the Magnificent Mechanic in kind, sire! </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - You sigh and shake your head in mock disappointment.</p><p>"And here I was, thinking that you actually wanted to see me. I should've known you were only after my money..." </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><em>An opening. Let's play it up,</em> Ace says. </p><p><em>On it,</em> Kim replies.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><strong>KIM KITSURAGI</strong> - He stifles a chuckle behind his fist. Then, he steps into your personal space and looks up at you coyly.</p><p>"Oh, but Detective," he says in a low, sultry voice. "I <em>did</em> want to see you."</p><p><strong>PERCEPTION (SMELL)</strong> [Trivial: Success] - Up this close, you can't help but breathe in Kim's wonderful scent, a subtle, clean fragrance with a hint of citrus and sandalwood— </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>As he looks up at Harry, Kim breathes in a lungful of the detective's cologne, which is an intoxicating mix of sweet tobacco and vanilla that makes him want to bury his face into Harry's neck and— </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><strong>ELECTROCHEMISTRY</strong> [Legendary: Failure] - The only thing that saves your brain cells from sudden death is the graphic image of a baby seagull ejecting its stomach contents into its nest.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>After a few more seconds of staring into Harry's lovely eyes, Kim reluctantly backs off. </p><p>"So," he says nonchalantly, "what did you have in mind for today, Harry?"</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - Kim's question snaps you out of your trance. </p><p><strong>VISUAL CALCULUS</strong> [Heroic: Success] - Your heart rate's still ridiculously high, but your blood flow's been redirected back to your brain, so you should be able to form coherent sentences again. </p><p><strong>SUGGESTION</strong> - Time to execute our plan! Try to play it cool. </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - You clear your throat. "Khm. Well, I was actually hoping that we could..."</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Kim patiently waits for Harry to continue.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><strong>COMPOSURE</strong> [Legendary: Failure] - Wait, what if—what if he thinks this is a stupid idea????</p><p><strong>LOGIC</strong> - Then let him say what he wants to do, and we'll just find a way to dovetail it into our original plan. </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - "...Hang out and play a board game."</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Kim blinks. </p><p><em>A board game???</em> Ace asks incredulously. <em>We dressed up like <strong>this</strong> for a fucking <strong>board game</strong>?????</em></p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><strong>KIM KITSURAGI</strong> - He gives you a puzzled frown. "A board game?"</p><p><strong>COMPOSURE</strong> [Legendary: Failure] - See??? He hates the idea!!!!</p><p><strong>EMPATHY</strong> [Medium: Success] - No, he doesn't. He's just baffled and curious as to why you'd want to play a board game when he put in all this effort into dressing up for you.</p><p><strong>ELECTROCHEMISTRY</strong> - He was probably expecting you to suggest a more...<em>physical</em> activity. </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - You wince and try to explain yourself. </p><p>"Well, I had some free time after we parted ways yesterday, so I took up Annette's offer and let her teach me how to play Suzerainty."</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>The mental image of fourteen-year-old Annette teaching this middle-aged detective how to play Suzerainty is so endearing that Kim has to stifle the fond smile that threatens to cross his lips.  </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - "After we played a few rounds, she lent me her board so that I could challenge you and learn from a 'real master,'" you say, forming quotation marks in the air with your fingers. </p><p><strong>DRAMA</strong> [Easy: Success] - Excellent, sire! That subtle appeal to his ego may increase his willingness to play with you.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Kim pretends to look surprised. </p><p>"So this is all Annette's idea? Why, Detective. I thought you actually wanted to see me," he says, in perfect imitation of Harry's earlier disappointment.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - You can't help but grin at Kim's comeback.</p><p><strong>DRAMA</strong> [Medium: Success] - Time to give him a taste of his own medicine, my liege!</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - "But Kim," you say, looking deep into his eyes. "I <em>did</em> want to see you."<br/><br/></p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>As he begins to drown in Harry's ocean-green eyes, Kim absently wonders what he's gotten himself into.</p><p><em>We could just drag him back to our apartment right now, you know,</em> Ace remarks drily.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><strong>KIM KITSURAGI</strong> - Suddenly, he looks away from you and coughs into his fist.</p><p><strong>COMPOSURE</strong> [Medium: Success] - And it could be just a trick of the light, but you swear that you can see the very tips of his ears turning red...</p><p><strong>KIM KITSURAGI</strong> - "Alright, Harry. Challenge accepted."</p><p><strong>ELECTROCHEMISTRY</strong> [Challenging: Success] - Is it just me, or does his voice sound mildly <em>wrecked</em>?</p><p><strong>COMPOSURE</strong> [Legendary: Success] - You can't blame him. You're barely holding yourself together right now too.</p><p><strong>VOLITION</strong> [Legendary: Success] - At this rate, it'll just be a matter of time before one of you snaps and does something entirely inappropriate to the other person...</p><p><strong>ELECTROCHEMISTRY</strong> - Oh! Oh! Can you volunteer to snap first????</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Keeping his eyes firmly trained on anywhere except for Harry's mesmerizing eyes, Kim asks, "So where do you want us to play?"</p><p>"Well, I was thinking we could play in the common area at the second floor of the Whirling," Harry says. "It's secluded enough so we can focus on the game, and we can always just order food from the cafeteria when we get hungry—My treat of course," he adds with an impish wink. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><strong>SAVOIR FAIRE</strong> [Easy: Success] - Damn, that wink was a work of art! </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - Why thank you.</p><p><strong>SAVOIR FAIRE</strong> - You know what would make that even better? <em>Finger guns</em>.</p><p><strong>EMPATHY </strong>[Medium: Success] - Something tells you that if you whip out your finger guns right now, Kim would just give you a deadpan stare.</p><p><strong>VOLITION</strong> [Medium: Success] - You keep your grubby guns tucked into your pockets, where they can cause no harm to your personal dignity.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>As Kim mulls about Harry's suggestion, he realizes two things:</p><p>First, he hasn't been back in the Whirling since the shitshow that happened there on Sunday night. </p><p>Second, at this time of day, Titus and his boys would be at their usual booth on the ground floor, and he didn't want them to see him acting all chummy with the Human Can Opener. </p><p> </p><p>But if Glen had followed their agreement...</p><p>Then the Hardie Boys would be too occupied to be at the Whirling today.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><strong>KIM KITSURAGI</strong> - "I don't mind playing at the Whirling. Won't your partner be there, though?" </p><p><strong>ESPRIT DE CORPS</strong> [Easy: Success] - Before he went out for his walk, Lt. Vicquemare promised you that he would do his best to stay out of your hair for the next four hours. You have no idea what he will do with that insane amount of free time, but you know for a fact that he will stick to his word. </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - "Jean will be out for the night, so we'll have the place to ourselves."</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><em>With all the time that this guy's been spending with us, his partner must be feeling pretty neglected</em>, Ace quips. </p><p><em>I'm not complaining. At least we only have to deal with only one detective, and not two of them</em>, Kim points out. </p><p> </p><p>"Shall we?" Harry asks, extending his arm towards the Whirling with a dramatic bow and a flourish. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><strong>KIM KITSURAGI</strong> - He rolls his eyes at your theatrics.</p><p><strong>COMPOSURE</strong> [Medium: Success] - But the small smile that blooms on his face is louder than any applause.</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>1) The maxim that Kim's Father likes is an actual line from Sun Tzu's "The Art of War."</p><p>2) Harry's date-night outfit is made up of in-game clothes whose skills would truly come in handy for his upcoming game with Kim:<br/>- Interisolary Suit Jacket (+1 Suggestion)<br/>- Interisolary Dress Shirt (+1 Logic)<br/>- RCM Lieutenant's Pants (+1 Authority, +1 Suggestion)<br/>- Bow Knot (+2 Drama)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. A Game, Played</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>As he enters the Whirling with Harry, the first thing that Kim notices is the closed booth near the kitchen.</p><p><em>Looks like the Hardie Boys aren’t around</em>, he tells Ace.</p><p><em>I’m surprised that traitor actually followed through with our agreement</em>, Ace replies.</p><p>Kim breathes a silent sigh of relief. In the two years that he’s spent in Martinaise, the Hardie Boys have come to treat him like one of their own. Titus, especially, has shown him nothing but kindness and loyalty, and if he found out about Jack’s arrival on Friday, then he would undoubtedly rally his men to fight by Kim’s side.</p><p>But even though the Hardie Boys are formidable fighters on their own, Kim knows that the moment they face off against Jack and his goons...</p><p>It would be a massacre.</p><p>And Kim would rather die than let that happen.</p><p> </p><p>Consoled by the Hardie Boys’ absence, Kim takes a moment to look around the Whirling. It’s been three days since he’s last been here, and everything looks normal: the floor is clean, the air is filled with the chatter of patrons and the smell of fried food, and Garte is polishing some glasses behind the bar.</p><p>But in his mind’s eye, he sees a different scene: the floor is littered with broken glass, the air is filled with panicked shouts and the smell of blood, and the half-naked body of his adopted sister is sprawled on the ground, with her skull bashed in and her fingers still curled around her gun...</p><p> </p><p>“Shame that the karaoke bar's still closed,” Harry murmurs beside him.</p><p>Kim snaps back to reality.</p><p>“Excuse me?”</p><p>Harry jerks his chin towards the karaoke stand at the back of the room. “I’ve been itching to sing a song or two on that thing ever since we arrived,” he says, “but the manager told us that it’s closed until further notice.”</p><p> </p><p>Since Kim knows exactly why the karaoke bar is closed, he decides to feign ignorance and schools his face into a mask of mild curiosity.  </p><p>“Did the manager say why he closed it?" </p><p>Harry shrugs. "He told us that there’d been an incident, but he didn't care to elaborate...Why? Do you know anything about it?"</p><p> </p><p>If Kim were an honest man, he would have said yes. He would have told Harry that last Saturday night, an intoxicated patron had marched up onstage to yell abusive slurs at an audience full of drunken dockworkers who were just minding their own business. He might have even told Harry that the only reason why that night didn’t end in bloodshed was because a certain mechanic had dragged his younger brother off the stage and had stared him down until he finally backed off...</p><p>But since Kim is anything but an honest man, he just shakes his head and says, “Sorry, I don’t usually go here at night. Watching dockworkers smash bottles over each other’s heads isn't my idea of fun.”</p><p> </p><p>Thankfully, Harry chuckles and seems to buy his story. “Well, drunken brawls aside, I still would’ve loved to have a go on that thing,” he sighs.</p><p>The expression on the detective’s face is so fond and wistful that Kim can’t help but smile at him.</p><p>“You really like karaoke, don't you?"</p><p>Harry's eyes suddenly light up like a pair of halogen headlamps. </p><p>“Like it?! I love it!!!!” he exclaims. "My colleagues and I always have karaoke nights on Fridays, and I'm so good at it that they gave me a special title!"</p><p> </p><p><em>I have a very bad feeling about this</em>, Kim thinks.</p><p><em>The door’s right behind us. We can still run away</em>, Ace mutters.  </p><p> </p><p>“They call me...”</p><p>Harry pauses for effect.</p><p>Kim braces himself.</p><p> </p><p>"...<em>The Karaoke God.</em>" </p><p> </p><p>Kim gives him a deadpan look. </p><p>"The Karaoke God," he says in an unimpressed monotone. </p><p>"Yep," Harry chirps.</p><p> </p><p><em>He's an idiot,</em> Ace says.</p><p><em>Yes, he is</em>, Kim replies.</p><p> </p><p>“I tried to tell them that I didn’t need the accolades,” Harry says with a rueful shake of his head, “but they insisted---<em>wait, where are you going</em>?!”</p><p>Kim pauses mid-stride and looks back at him. “I was going up to the second floor so that we can start playing Suzerainty,” he says matter-of-factly. “After all, your <em>shrine</em>---” he jerks a thumb at the karaoke bar, “---is closed, Mr. Karaoke God.”</p><p>Then, before Harry can pout at him like a toddler, Kim walks away and heads for the stairs. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><strong>DRAMA</strong> - Oh, the Magnificent Mechanic got us good, sire!</p><p><strong>AUTHORITY</strong> [Challenging: Failure] – How dare he walk away from you while you were delivering your useless monologue?!</p><p><strong>LOGIC</strong> – You deserved it. You shouldn’t have listened to this puffed-up windbag.</p><p><strong>DRAMA</strong> - Excuse me, are you referring to <em>moi</em>???!!!</p><p><strong>VOLITION</strong> - You might want to quit staring after Kim and start walking after him. </p><p><strong>ELECTROCHEMISTRY </strong>- Or you can <em>continue </em>staring after Kim, because damn, those jeans leave <em>nothing</em> to the imagination—</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - NO SEAGULLS!!!!</p><p><strong>CONCEPTUALIZATION</strong> [Challenging: Failure] - Seagulls? What seagulls?</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>When they reach the second floor, Kim parks himself by the round table in the common area while Harry goes to his room to get Suzerainty. While waiting for him to come back, Kim finds himself contemplating the door nearest to the staircase, which happened to lead to the room where—</p><p>  </p><p><em>We still don't know who offed King</em>, Ace says quietly.</p><p>Kim sighs. <em>And we'll probably never find out now, with Jack coming on Friday</em>.</p><p> </p><p>The thought of letting his brother's murderer get away should have filled Kim with rage.</p><p>But right now, he just feels...numb. Between covering up the deaths of his siblings and having to deal with the RCM, he's barely had enough time to process everything that's happened, much less hunt down King's killer— </p><p> </p><p><em>We <strong>did</strong> have the time</em>, <em>but you've wasted it all on this damn pig</em>.</p><p>A pang of guilt shoots through Kim's heart.</p><p>
  <em>If we didn't spend time with him, he would've found someone else to crack open.  </em>
</p><p>Ace scoffs. </p><p><em>Keep telling yourself that, Speedfreak</em>.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><strong>REACTION SPEED</strong> [Challenging: Success] - As you emerge from your room carrying the ridiculously heavy Suzerainty box in your hands, you spot Kim quickly looking away from something...</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - What was he looking at?</p><p><strong>VISUAL CALCULUS </strong> [Medium: Success] - Based on the estimated trajectory of his line of sight, he seems to have been looking at a point that’s approximately 0.58 meters to your left, which just so happens to be the door of the room right beside yours.</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - Compelled by a mysterious intuition, you file away this observation for future reference.</p><p><strong>AUTHORITY </strong>– He’s acting suspicious. We should just arrest him and interrogate him back at the precinct, just like any other perp—  </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - A collective gasp echoes through your mind.</p><p><strong>EMPATHY</strong> - <em>Arrest Kim</em>???? Are you crazy?????</p><p><strong>DRAMA</strong> - We would rather die than lay a finger on him!!!!</p><p><strong>ELECTROCHEMISTRY </strong>– Wait a minute guys, I think he’s onto something! Just think about it—</p><p>The scorching image of <em>Kim in</em> <em>handcuffs</em> blazes through your mind.</p><p><strong>VOLITION</strong> [Challenging: Success] – The only reason why you don’t drop the Suzerainty box on your foot is because of me, so you’re welcome.</p><p><strong>PAIN THRESHOLD </strong>– Given how heavy this damn thing is, you would have crushed all of your toes, so yes, please say thank you to your incredible powers of self-control.</p><p><strong>LOGIC</strong> [Medium: Success] – Going back to arresting Kim, you technically still don't have any evidence that would warrant an arrest, so even if you wanted to—</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - And for the record, I definitely, absolutely do <strong><em>not</em></strong> want to. </p><p><strong>LOGIC</strong> - —you still can't bring him in for questioning.</p><p><strong>SUGGESTION</strong> – Thankfully, if you play your cards right tonight, you won't need to arrest Kim to find out whether he's involved in this whole debacle or not... </p><p><strong>RHETORIC</strong> – Ha! I see what you did there.</p><p><strong>COMPOSURE</strong> [Heroic: Success] – After taking a deep breath to calm your nerves, you make your way over to the table where Kim is waiting for you.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>“Why is this thing so damn heavy?” Harry mutters as he puts down the Suzerainty box onto the table with a thud.</p><p>Smirking, Kim stands up to help him take out all of the pieces. "I've always thought that the game manual made up half its weight. That thing's practically a novel..."</p><p>"You said it. I spent all night reading through it, and I swear that I've learned more about the history of Revachol from this game than from all my years in school," Harry mutters.</p><p>They spend the next few minutes setting up the game, and Kim silently observes the speed with which Harry is able to arrange the pieces on the board...</p><p><em>I thought he said that he only learned to play yesterday,</em> he tells Ace.</p><p>Ace shrugs.<em> He could have lied, for all we know.</em></p><p>Kim glances at Harry.</p><p>
  <em>There's only one way to find out... </em>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><strong>KIM KITSURAGI</strong> - "Are you ready to play?" he asks as you take your seats.</p><p><strong>COMPOSURE</strong> [Formidable: Success] - Even though your heart’s pounding in your chest, you manage to keep a genial smile on your face and smoothly deliver your next line.</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - "Yeah—Oh, but before we start, I have two things that I want to suggest, if you don't mind."</p><p><strong>KIM KITSURAGI</strong> - He shrugs. "Go ahead. I'm listening."</p><p><strong>SUGGESTION </strong>[Easy: Success] – Just throw it out there—He’s bound to say yes to this one.  </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Harry raises his index finger. "First suggestion: let's play the fast version. First player to reach ten points wins."</p><p><em>Why not</em>, Ace says. <em>God knows this game takes a fucking eternity to play...</em></p><p>Kim nods. "Fair enough. What's your second suggestion?"</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><strong>LOGIC</strong> - This is it. He has to say yes to this one, or else the whole operation will be a bust.</p><p><strong>SUGGESTION</strong> [Challenging: Success] – Draw him in. Make it sound exciting. Dangerous. Risky.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>A mischievous glint appears in Harry's eyes. </p><p>"Suggestion two," he says, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the table, "Let's add some stakes to this game."</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><strong>COMPOSURE</strong> [Easy: Success] – A perplexed frown appears on his face.  </p><p><strong>KIM KITSURAGI</strong> - "If you wanted to gamble, Harry, we could have just played poker—"</p><p><strong>EMPATHY</strong> [Formidable: Success] – He’s trying to sound flippant, but he’s wary about where you’re going with this...</p><p><strong>SUGGESTION</strong> [Challenging: Success] – But he's interested to hear what you have to say. Keep on at it! </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - "No, no. I wasn't thinking about using money. I was thinking of something more...valuable than that."</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>That catches Ace's attention.</p><p><em>He’s up to something</em>, he says. <em>Keep your guard up</em>.  </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><strong>KIM KITSURAGI </strong>- He mirrors your posture and rests his elbows on the table too. "Interesting. What did you have in mind?"</p><p><strong>EMPATHY</strong> [Easy: Success] – He’s still wary, but you've piqued his curiosity.  </p><p><strong>SUGGESTION</strong> [Challenging: Success] - Time to make a leap of faith! </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - You give him a daredevil grin. </p><p>"Whoever wins gets to ask the loser any question he wants, and the loser has to give him an honest answer.”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Kim blinks.</p><p><em>I knew it.</em> <em>This whole thing’s a fucking trap, </em>Ace hisses. </p><p><em>If it is, then it’s not a very good one</em>, Kim points out. <em>We can always just lie our way out of it, and he’ll never know.</em></p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><strong>KIM KITSURAGI</strong> - "But what if the loser doesn't want to answer the question?"</p><p><strong>DRAMA</strong> [Formidable: Success] - There is a tremulous undercurrent of defensiveness beneath his curious tone, sire. If I may hazard a guess, it would appear that our dear mechanic is hiding something...</p><p><strong>AUTHORITY</strong> [Formidable: Success] - Don't back down! Stick to your terms and he will rise up to meet your challenge. </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - "Then they shouldn't have lost in the first place. But seriously though, what kind of stakes would these be if the loser could just refuse to answer?"</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Kim pretends to think about it.</p><p><em>He’s obviously going to ask us something about the case</em>, he tells Ace.</p><p>Ace shrugs. <em>He might, but he has to win against us first...</em></p><p><em>Which will never happen anyway</em>, Kim says lightly.</p><p>Ace grins. <em>You bet it won't.  </em></p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><strong>KIM KITSURAGI</strong> - "How can we be sure that the loser will tell the truth?"</p><p><strong>DRAMA</strong> - The answer of course, is <em>moi</em>. </p><p><strong>SUGGESTION</strong> - But he doesn't need to know that you have a built-in lie detector in your skull, so you'll have to come up with a different answer. Preferably something that will convince him to tell you the truth <em>and</em> to lower his guard...</p><p><strong>DRAMA </strong>– During trying times like these, I humbly suggest that we resort to the most powerful weapon in our formidable arsenal—</p><p><strong>YOU </strong>– You...you can’t mean—</p><p><strong>AUTHORITY </strong>[Legendary: Failure] – <em>No</em>!!!! You can’t use that against Kim, he’ll—</p><p><strong>LOGIC</strong> [Legendary: Failure] – Wait, let’s think through this first—</p><p><strong>DRAMA</strong> [Formidable: Success] – The mechanic leaves you with no choice, sire.</p><p>It is time...</p><p>To bring out the <em>Big Gun</em>. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>"I knew you’d ask about that," Harry says with a smile. "The loser will <em>have</em> to tell the truth, because we'll enter into the most sacred compact that can ever exist between two men..."</p><p>Kim frowns at Harry in confusion.</p><p>
  <em>What’s he talking about?</em>
</p><p><em>He’s probably going to ask us to marry him, </em>Ace says in a deadpan voice<em>.</em></p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><strong>RHETORIC</strong> - Sorry, boss. But the way you phrased that makes it sound like you're about to ask him to marry you...</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - <em>What</em>????!!!!! No!!! That wasn't what I wanted to—!!!! </p><p><strong>ELECTROCHEMISTRY</strong> [Trivial: Success] - Are you <em>sure</em> about that? Because you've been thinking about him an awful lot lately...</p><p><strong>DRAMA</strong> - As the poets say, "The mouth speaks what the heart is full of," my liege. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>To his horror, Kim feels his ears turning warm.</p><p><em>D-don't be silly.</em> <em>He's not going to ask us to marry him.</em></p><p>
  <em>... I think.</em>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><strong>COMPOSURE</strong> [Medium: Success] - Look, Kim's ears are turning red again!</p><p><strong>ELECTROCHEMISTRY</strong> - See??? Even <em>he</em> thinks you're about to ask him to marry you, so you might as well— </p><p><strong>DRAMA</strong> [Heroic: Success] - Wait, sire! You were about to show the Magnificent Mechanic your Big Gun!!!</p><p><strong>RHETORIC </strong>- ... You know what? Now that I think about it, that actually sounds really, really wrong.</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - What are you talking about--?</p><p>Then, it hits you. </p><p><strong>ELECTROCHEMISTRY</strong> [Trivial: Success] - Oh. My. <em>God.</em></p><p> <strong>RHETORIC</strong> - You really have to come up with a better name for this thing.</p><p><strong>COMPOSURE</strong> [Legendary: Success] - Even as you shrivel up into a mortified puddle on the inside, you manage to keep a perfectly straight face as you extend your hand towards Kim and— </p><p><strong>DRAMA</strong> - Behold!!!</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Kim doesn't know what he was expecting...</p><p>But he definitely wasn't expecting <em>this</em>. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - "Come on, Kim," you say with utter seriousness. "<em>Pinky swear</em>."</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><em>... I have absolutely no words for how idiotic this is</em>, Ace mutters, as Harry wiggles his pinky in front of Kim's face.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><strong>KIM KITSURAGI</strong> - He looks absolutely stunned.</p><p><strong>EMPATHY </strong>[Medium: Success] - He was probably expecting you to act like a normal human adult, which was a huge mistake on his part. </p><p><strong>AUTHORITY</strong> [Legendary: Failure] – Every single shred of respect that he had for you vanished into thin air the moment you whipped out your damn pinky.</p><p><strong>DRAMA</strong> - This is it, sire! The most sacred, inviolable vow that can ever exist between two men!!!</p><p><strong>AUTHORITY</strong> [Legendary: Failure] - Or between two preschoolers.</p><p><strong>SUGGESTION</strong> [Challenging: Success] - Speaking of preschoolers, you might want to sprinkle some <em>ad misericordiam</em> on top of that to sweeten the deal.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>"Come on, Kiiiiiiiim," Harry whines as he wiggles his neglected pinky in front of Kim's face like a frustrated preschooler.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><strong>KIM KITSURAGI</strong> - He spends a few more seconds staring at your pinky with a flabbergasted look on his face.</p><p><strong>COMPOSURE</strong> [Medium: Success] - Then, behind his eyes...</p><p>Something snaps.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>And before Kim can stop himself, he's looking away from Harry and covering his mouth in a vain effort to stifle his—</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><strong>AUTHORITY</strong> [Legendary: Failure] - ... He's laughing at you.</p><p><em>He's laughing at you</em>. </p><p><strong>VOLITION</strong> [Legendary: Success] - Actually, it's more like he's trying to stop himself from laughing at you. </p><p>He's not succeeding, but he is trying very, <em>very</em> hard.</p><p><strong>KIM KITSURAGI</strong> - His shoulders are trembling with silent laughter. One of his arms is curled around his stomach, and he still can't bring himself to look at your face.   </p><p><strong>COMPOSURE</strong> [Medium: Success] - There are tears in his eyes, but he looks...</p><p><strong>EMPATHY</strong> [Easy: Success] - Happy.</p><p>Really, truly happy.</p><p><strong>DRAMA</strong> [Trivial: Success] - Suddenly, you're hit by the stunning realization that if this childish idiocy is what it takes to make this beautiful man laugh, then you would gladly play the part of the fool forever. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>As Kim wipes the tears from his eyes and tries to catch his breath, he makes the mistake of looking at Harry again. The detective still has his pinky extended in front of him, but his face is filled with so much wondrous joy that once again, Kim finds himself drowning in Harry’s eyes...</p><p>Then, before Ace can say anything, he reaches over and curls his pinky around Harry's.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><strong>KIM KITSURAGI</strong> - "Alright, Harry. Pinky swear that I'll tell the truth if I lose."</p><p><strong>COMPOSURE</strong> [Medium: Success] - The smile on his face is soft, fond, and absolutely devastating.</p><p><strong>DRAMA</strong> [Medium: Success] - The Magnificent Mechanic's commitment to this most solemn vow seems genuine, sire!</p><p><strong>PERCEPTION</strong> [Easy: Success] - In the brief moment that your pinkies remain entwined, you notice two things: First, he's wearing black, leather fingerless gloves that make him look even more unreasonably cool. </p><p><strong>SAVOIR FAIRE</strong> - Who cares about evidence??? It's <em>illegal</em> to be this cool and handsome. You should totally arrest him right now!</p><p><strong>PERCEPTION</strong> [Challenging: Success] - And second, his pinky is pale and slender compared to yours, and you feel the slightest hint of calluses on the pad of his finger...</p><p><strong>CONCEPTUALIZATION</strong> [Easy: Success] - This isn't a pinky swear. It's more like a...pinky <em>hug</em>. </p><p><strong>ELECTROCHEMISTRY</strong> [Easy: Success] - Or a pinky <em>kiss!</em></p><p><strong>LOGIC</strong> - Congratulations, you've somehow managed to make a pinky swear sound lecherous.</p><p><strong>ELECTROCHEMISTRY</strong> - Why thank you! I try my best.</p><p><strong>VOLITION</strong> [Legendary: Success] - Alright, now let go of his pinky before you accidentally cut off its blood supply.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>"Alright then, let's start playing!" Harry says. "Don't go easy on me just because I'm a rookie, okay?"</p><p>Kim gives him a predatory smirk.</p><p>"Oh, don't worry, Detective. I wasn't planning to," he says casually.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><strong>KIM KITSURAGI</strong> - Fifteen minutes later, he leans back in his chair with a smug look on his face.</p><p>"Well, Harry. Looks like I won."</p><p><strong>AUTHORITY</strong> [Legendary: Failure] - What have you gotten yourself into?</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - You knew that it was going to be tough to beat him, but frankly, this level of skill is—</p><p><strong>LOGIC</strong> [Challenging: Success] - Bloody <em>brilliant</em>. </p><p><strong>HALF LIGHT</strong> [Challenging: Success] - Utterly <em>terrifying</em>.</p><p><strong>ELECTROCHEMISTRY</strong> [Easy: Success] - And incredibly <em>hot</em>. </p><p><strong>VISUAL CALCULUS</strong> [Trivial: Success] - It was a landslide victory. He won by eight fucking points, and he showed you absolutely no mercy. </p><p><strong>LOGIC</strong> - Thankfully, this is still part of the plan, so just play along and act like you feel bad for losing.</p><p><strong>AUTHORITY</strong> [Legendary: Failure] - Which shouldn't be too hard, because you actually <em>do</em> feel bad about losing, you competitive bastard you. </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - Sighing, you give Kim a baleful look. </p><p>"Alright, you got me. Ask me anything you want."</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Kim taps his chin thoughtfully.</p><p><em>What do you think we should ask him?</em> he asks Ace. </p><p><em>I don't know about you</em>, Ace responds, <em>but I've always wondered about</em>—</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><strong>KIM KITSURAGI</strong> - He peers at you from across the table. </p><p>"That morning, when we first met... How did you know my name?"</p><p><strong>RHETORIC</strong> - That's an excellent question that you should have totally seen coming. </p><p><strong>LOGIC</strong> [Legendary: Failure] - Unfortunately, you didn't see it coming, so now you're going to have to tell him that you hear disembodied voices in your head.</p><p><strong>DRAMA</strong> - Indeed, sire! You have sworn to tell the truth, and tell the truth you shall!</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Harry leans forward with a conspiratorial glint in his eye, and Kim finds himself leaning forward to hear his answer...</p><p>"A voice in my head told me.” </p><p> </p><p>Kim blinks.</p><p>“Say that again?” </p><p> </p><p>“A voice in my head told me,” Harry repeats. "Now, I know that makes me sound crazy—" </p><p><em>If that was the case, then you'd both be crazy</em>, Ace's voice says in Kim's head.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - “—but I’ve been hearing voices in my head ever since I could remember. And they’ve served me well, for the most part.”</p><p><strong>KIM KITSURAGI</strong> - He seems to be taking this news surprisingly well. </p><p><strong>AUTHORITY</strong> [Medium: Success] - He's not laughing at you.</p><p><strong>HALF-LIGHT</strong> [Medium: Success] - He's not staring at you as if you just escaped from the loony bin.</p><p><strong>EMPATHY</strong> [Medium: Success] - In fact, he even seems...sympathetic. As if he somehow knows how it feels to never be alone in your own head...</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>“So a voice in your head told you my name when you first saw me?” Kim asks Harry.</p><p>Harry nods. "Yeah. My partner and I walked over to you, I called your attention, you came out from under the car, and <em>boom!</em>" He claps his hands. "'It's Kim!' a voice told me."</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><strong>DRAMA</strong> [Easy: Success] - Well-phrased, sire. The Magnificent Mechanic does not need to know the details of the minor mental breakdown that you experienced when you first saw his illustrious personage. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Kim mulls over that for a moment. He's pretty sure that he's never personally met Harry before—All of the information that he knows about the Human Can Opener came from his Father and his siblings...</p><p>"But how did the voice know my name?"</p><p>Harry clucks his tongue and wags a finger in the air. “That’ll count as another question, Mr. Kitsuragi. Ask me again when you beat me this round,” he says with a playful wink.</p><p> </p><p>Suddenly, Kim is surprised to realize that he genuinely wants to win now, just so he could learn more about the eccentric, inner workings of Harry's mind...</p><p><em>We're going to win every round,</em> he tells Ace. </p><p>Ace cracks his knuckles. </p><p>
  <em>That was the plan all along. </em>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><strong>COMPOSURE</strong> [Easy: Success] - You've done it now. He looks like he's ready to crush you.</p><p><strong>VOLITION</strong> - That's excellent, because you were getting tired from holding yourself back during the last one.</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - This is it, gentlemen. Time to go all-out.</p><p><strong>AUTHORITY</strong> - <em>Finally.</em> Let's show him who's the real boss around here. </p><p><strong>LOGIC</strong> - Indeed. It's been a while since you've met someone who can keep up with you in a battle of wits. This will be fun.</p><p><strong>HALF-LIGHT</strong> [Challenging: Success] - And terrifying.</p><p><strong>ELECTROCHEMISTRY</strong> [Easy: Success] - And—I cannot repeat this often enough—<em>incredibly hot</em>. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>The next round is brutal. The first few turns go in Kim's favor, but then Harry surprises him by launching an all-out offensive against his economy in the latter turns, which forces Kim to adopt a more conservative playstyle than he's used to.</p><p>By the end of the round, Kim is left staring in disbelief at their scoresheet.</p><p><em>No, there has to be a mistake</em>, Ace says.</p><p>Kim does the calculations again, just to be sure.</p><p>Then, he looks up and stares at the beaming face of the man who just handed him his first ever real loss in Suzerainty. </p><p><em>The ones with that twerp don't count, because you just let her win</em>, Ace mutters. </p><p>"That was close!" Harry exclaims with a relieved huff. "Can't believe I got those libraries built in Revachol before you finished your markets."</p><p>Despite his best efforts, Kim cannot detect a single trace of smugness or gloating in Harry's voice.</p><p><em>It was a fluke. It must have been</em>, he says. </p><p><em>Whatever it was</em>, Ace sighs. <em>He still gets to ask us a question. </em></p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><strong>KIM KITSURAGI</strong> - "Congratulations, Harry. That was very well-played."</p><p><strong>EMPATHY</strong> [Medium: Success] - He's pissed that you won, but he's a good enough sport to not be a bitch about it.</p><p><strong>DRAMA</strong> [Easy: Success] - That compliment was genuine, sire. He truly seems to admire the skill with which you thrashed his metaphorical backside.</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - "Thanks, Kim. You ready for my question?"</p><p><strong>KIM KITSURAGI</strong> - He shrugs. "Sure. Fire away."</p><p><strong>COMPOSURE </strong>[Medium: Success]<strong> - </strong>He's projecting an air of nonchalance, but beneath that, he's practically thrumming with apprehension. </p><p><strong>SUGGESTION</strong> [Formidable: Success] - You can't be too direct, or else he'll clam up on you. You'd better soften him up a bit. Catch him off-guard—</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>"What's your favorite color?"</p><p>It takes a moment for the question to register in Kim's mind.</p><p>"Excuse me?" </p><p>"What's your favorite color?" Harry repeats. "Do you like red, orange, silver—?"  </p><p> Kim frowns at him. </p><p>"I know what colors are, Harry," he says, even as his mind races to comprehend why the hell Harry isn't asking him about the case— </p><p> <em>I still say he's up to something</em>, Ace says. <em>Either that, or he truly is a fucking simpleton. </em></p><p><em>He's not a simpleton. He beat us fair and square just now</em>, Kim replies. </p><p>Ace rolls his eyes.<em> Whatever. Just answer his damn question. </em></p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><strong>KIM KITSURAGI</strong> - He sighs. </p><p>"My favorite color's blue."</p><p><b>CONCEPTUALIZATION </b>[Formidable: Success] - The color of the sky.</p><p><strong>AUTHORITY</strong> [Formidable: Success] - The color of loyalty.</p><p><strong>EMPATHY</strong> [Formidable: Success] - The color of sadness.</p><p><strong>INLAND EMPIRE</strong> [Formidable: Success] - A caged bird who yearns to spread its wings in the vast expanse that lies beyond its iron bars, but whose feet are bound by the chains of filial obedience and inconsolable guilt...</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - You're suddenly beset by the powerful urge to reach over and take his hands in yours so that you can tell him that you'll do everything to save him, to set him free—</p><p><strong>VOLITION</strong> [Legendary: Success] - But you manage to stop yourself, because you know that you will lose him forever if you do those to him right now.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>"Huh, I always thought you'd be more of an orange kind of guy..." Harry says while rubbing his chin.</p><p>Kim raises an amused eyebrow at him. "Let me guess: You deduced that from my bomber jacket?"</p><p>Harry chuckles. "Yeah, but blue suits you just fine. It's cool. Calm. Mysterious..." </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><strong>KIM KITSURAGI</strong> - His eyes narrow with mock suspicion.</p><p>"Why, Detective. Are you trying to hit on me?"</p><p><strong>SAVOIR FAIRE</strong> [Challenging: Success] - This is one of those times when honesty is truly the best policy. </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - "Why yes, I am, Mr. Kitsuragi. Is it working?"</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>If Kim were an honest man, he would have said yes.</p><p>But since he's a sadistic bastard, he just shakes his head and says, "Sorry, Harry. That counts as another question. Try asking me again once you've beaten me in the next round."</p><p> </p><p>They play continuously for the next two hours, and Kim is taken aback by the intensity of their game. As much as he loves spending time with Annette, he’s always had to pull his punches whenever they played, if only because she would have hated him if he won all the time.</p><p>But with Harry, he doesn’t have to hold back—In fact, he can’t afford to hold back, because Harry doesn’t let up on him for a single moment. For every ingenious ploy that he dishes out, Harry responds with a brilliant strategy of his own. When Kim focuses on amassing a certain resource, Harry carves out a monopoly on another one. Whenever Kim succeeds in building a structure in Revachol, Harry manages to accumulate enough gold to build two of those same structures on a later turn. Their trade wars often end in deadlocks, and more than once, the round concludes with one of them being just one or two points ahead of the other.</p><p>It’s unpredictable, frustrating, and incredibly stressful.</p><p>But it’s also the most fun that Kim’s had in a very, very long time.</p><p> </p><p>Since they end up winning and losing against each other in equal measure, Kim’s had the chance to ask Harry a fair number of questions. He now knows that Harry’s favorite color is green (because it was only fair for Kim to ask him too), that he has a voice in his head that gives him visions about people’s pasts (which helped him deduce that Kim is an orphan), that he joined the RCM because his former girlfriend inspired him to do so (they broke up six years ago), and that if he could eat just one food for the rest of his life, it would be burritos (because it contained all major food groups—at least, that's what Harry thinks).</p><p>Conversely, Harry now knows that Kim has four siblings (two brothers, one sister, and whatever the hell Joker was), that his favorite motor carriage is the Coupris Kineema (because of its incredible ignition engine and top-of-the-line auxiliary systems), that he got the nickname “Ace” from his father (who’s a gambler—and Kim still can’t believe that Harry remembered his nickname after hearing it just once yesterday), and that if he weren’t a mechanic, then he’d be an aerostat pilot (because he’s always wanted to fly).</p><p> </p><p>For the most part, Ace kept silent during their conversation, only piping up every now and then to suggest a better move or to groan in disapproval whenever he missed an opportunity to gain an advantage over Harry.</p><p>But perhaps the most surprising thing of all was that Kim found himself actually answering Harry’s questions honestly. Not just one or two questions—</p><p>But all of them.</p><p> </p><p>He’s not exactly sure why he did that. He still felt tempted to lie to Harry, especially when the detective asked him about his siblings and his nickname.</p><p>But he just couldn’t bring himself to do it, because it felt...wrong.</p><p>Maybe it was that damned pinky promise. </p><p>Or maybe Ace was right—he was getting complacent and letting his guard down.</p><p>Or maybe, after spending most of his life lying to himself and to everyone else, Kim's just fucking tired of lying. </p><p> </p><p>At some point in their game, Kim makes a witty remark that makes Harry burst into laughter, and as that joyful sound pierces through Kim's heart, he realizes that this might be his last chance to finally let someone into his cold and solitary life— </p><p>Namely, this childish and brilliant man who believes in pinky promises and who forced himself to master an insanely complicated board game just so he could draw out the truth from Kim in the gentlest possible way.</p><p> </p><p>It frightens him, how much he wants to be known by this detective.</p><p>Not because he's afraid that Harry will hurt him—Harry's far too kind to do that, and Kim's grown far too callous to be afraid of pain.</p><p> </p><p>He's afraid because he knows that if he lets Harry in...</p><p>Then he'll never want Harry to leave. </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. A Door, Closed</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p><strong>GARTE, THE CAFETERIA MANAGER</strong> – “Let me repeat your order, Detective: One hamburger with extra cheese, a plate of poutaine, and one plate of Whirling-in-Ravioli, am I right?”</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> – “That’s right. Oh, and two cans of Pale Pilsner.”</p><p><strong>ELECTROCHEMISTRY</strong> – Kim doesn’t look like the drinking kind. But on the bright side, you can totally have both beers for yourself!</p><p><strong>VOLITION</strong> [Medium: Success] – You might want to stay sober tonight, unless you want to make a fool out of yourself in front of Kim...</p><p><strong>AUTHORITY</strong> [Legendary: Failure] – Too late. You've done it already with that damned pinky promise.</p><p> </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> – “Make that one can of Pale Pilsner and a glass of lemonade.”</p><p>As Garte relays your orders to the kitchen, you take a seat by the bar and make yourself comfortable.</p><p>How’s the night going, gentlemen?</p><p><strong>LOGIC</strong> – It’s going splendidly. You’ve played Suzerainty with Kim for two hours, and you’ve learned some very interesting things about him.</p><p><strong>EMPATHY</strong> – As an added bonus, you both seem to be genuinely enjoying yourselves, and Kim's warmed up to you quite a bit.</p><p><strong>COMPOSURE</strong> – In fact, you’ve lost count of how many smiles you’ve managed to coax out of him tonight—</p><p><strong>VISUAL CALCULUS</strong> [Challenging: Success] – But if you were going to be anal about it, you’ve managed to coax 14 smiles, 5 chuckles, and one bout of silent laughter out of him during the past 120 minutes.</p><p><strong>COMPOSURE</strong> – Don’t take this personally, but I kind of hate you sometimes, VC.</p><p><strong>VISUAL CALCULUS</strong> – No offense taken.</p><p>
  
</p><p><strong>ELECTROCHEMISTRY</strong> [Trivial: Success] – Warmth blooms in your chest at the memory of Kim’s smile.</p><p><strong>PERCEPTION </strong>[Trivial: Success] – You might want to tone down the sappiness a bit, because Garte’s looking at you funny.</p><p><strong>COMPOSURE </strong>[Legendary: Failure] – The poor man looks mildly terrified, probably because you’re staring at him with a lovestruck expression on your face.</p><p><strong>GARTE, THE CAFETERIA MANAGER</strong> – “Are...Are you alright, Detective?”</p><p><strong>EMPATHY</strong> [Trivial: Success] – Yep, he’s definitely terrified.</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> – You sigh wistfully. “Love is truly a smoke made with the fume of sighs, Garte."</p><p><strong>EMPATHY</strong> [Trivial: Success] – Congratulations, you’ve thoroughly creeped him out now.</p><p><strong>GARTE, THE CAFETERIA MANAGER</strong> – He sidles away from your field of vision to avoid the love rays that are shooting out from your eyes.</p><p> </p><p><strong>LOGIC</strong> – Sorry to interrupt your pining, but would you like to review what you’ve found out so far about Kim?</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> – You heave another sigh of ardent longing and continue to stare lovingly at the brick wall in front of you.</p><p>Sure, let’s go ahead and do that.</p><p><strong>CONCEPTUALIZATION</strong> – For starters, his favorite color’s blue.  </p><p><strong>INTERFACING </strong>– His favorite motor carriage is the Coupris Kineema, and his dream job is to become an aerostat pilot.</p><p><strong>VISUAL CALCULUS</strong> - However, the most notable pieces of information that you’ve learned are about his family. According to Kim, he has four siblings—two brothers, a sister, and one of an indeterminate gender. You've also discovered that he received the nickname "Ace" from his father, who happens to be a gambler.</p><p><strong>LOGIC</strong> – Interestingly, the profile of Kim’s siblings match up quite well with the face cards of a standard 52-card deck. Kim and his brothers would be Ace, King, and Jack, his sister would be Queen, and their last sibling would most likely be a Joker.</p><p>But if this deduction is correct, then the two victims—King and Queen— are likely to have been Kim's adopted siblings.</p><p> </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> – A pensive silence descends over your mind.</p><p><strong>EMPATHY</strong> – That doesn’t make any sense. You haven’t detected a trace of sadness or grief coming from Kim these past two days. I mean, I know that I’m biased towards him, but still—</p><p><strong>HALF-LIGHT</strong> [Challenging: Success] – That’s because he killed them, you sentimental idiot.</p><p>
  
</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> – You almost fall out of your chair.</p><p><strong>EMPATHY</strong> - That’s impossible! Kim would <em>never</em> hurt anyone, much less kill them—</p><p><strong>DRAMA</strong> – Indeed! The Magnificent Mechanic has been forthcoming with us thus far tonight, and—</p><p><strong>LOGIC</strong> [Formidable: Success] – But you haven’t asked him anything directly related to the case yet.</p><p><strong>DRAMA</strong> – That...That’s true! However—</p><p>
  
</p><p><strong>HALF-LIGHT</strong> [Challenging: Success] – You’re afraid, aren't you?</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> – What do you mean?</p><p><strong>HALF-LIGHT</strong> [Challenging: Success] – You’re afraid that you'll find out that Kim actually did it—that he killed those people. </p><p><strong>AUTHORITY</strong> – Because if he did kill them, then you’ll have to arrest him.</p><p><strong>PAIN THRESHOLD</strong> [Legendary: Failure] – And if you arrest him...</p><p>Then you’ll never see him again.</p><p> </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> – You stare at the brick wall in mute horror.</p><p><strong>LOGIC</strong> [Godly: Success] - You're no longer capable of treating this case objectively.</p><p><strong>VOLITION </strong>[Godly: Success] – You’ve been compromised.</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> – No! That's not true—</p><p><strong>DRAMA</strong> [Challenging: Success] – Sire...</p><p>You mustn’t lie to yourself like this.</p><p><strong>LOGIC</strong> - When you first saw him in the backyard of the Whirling, you knew that he was involved in the case somehow. </p><p><strong>VOLITION </strong>– Ever since then, you’ve been trying to gather evidence and information from him. That’s why you invited him out yesterday. That’s why you’re here with him tonight.</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> – That’s right. And I’m doing all of this because I want to solve this damned thing—</p><p><strong>VOLITION</strong> [Godly: Success] – No.</p><p>You’re doing all of this because you want to prove that he’s innocent.</p><p><strong>LOGIC</strong> – Because if he’s innocent—</p><p>Then you can be with him.</p><p><strong>PAIN THRESHOLD</strong> [Legendary: Failure] – And that’s what you want more than anything else in the world right now, isn’t it?</p><p>To be with him.</p><p> </p><p><strong>GARTE, THE CAFETERIA MANAGER</strong> – “Detective?”</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> – You snap out of your stupor.</p><p><strong>COMPOSURE</strong> [Trivial: Success] – He’s staring at you with genuine alarm and concern.</p><p><strong>GARTE, THE CAFETERIA MANAGER</strong> – “I don’t mean to interrupt your thoughts, but are you alright? You...”</p><p>He frowns.</p><p>“You seem to be tearing up.”</p><p><strong>COMPOSURE</strong> [Godly: Failure] – What?! No, that’s—</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> – You reach up to touch your face, and you’re horrified to discover that your eyes are wet with tears.</p><p><strong>PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT</strong> [Godly: Failure] – Why the hell are you bawling like a baby in public??? Stop being such a fucking pussy!!!</p><p><strong>HALF-LIGHT</strong> [Challenging: Success] – In a few seconds, everyone will start to notice the detective who’s crying at the bar. They’ll start whispering, muttering, pointing, laughing—  </p><p><strong>GARTE, THE CAFETERIA MANAGER</strong> – Suddenly, there’s a clean table napkin being pressed into your hands.</p><p>“Use this, Detective.”</p><p><strong>COMPOSURE</strong> [Easy: Success] – He’s deliberately looking away from you.</p><p><strong>AUTHORITY</strong> [Legendary: Failure] – He’s disgusted with you.</p><p><strong>HALF-LIGHT</strong> [Legendary: Success] – He thinks you’re crazy.</p><p><strong>EMPATHY</strong> [Heroic: Success] – No. He’s looking away out of deference and out of respect. He knows that you felt mortified when he pointed out that you were crying, and he doesn’t want to add to that any further.</p><p> </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> – Sniffling, you take the napkin from Garte and quickly wipe your eyes.</p><p>“Thanks, Garte. I uh, I don’t know what came over me back there.”</p><p><strong>GARTE, THE CAFETERIA MANAGER</strong> – He gives you a skeptical look, but he seems relieved to see that you’ve pulled yourself together.</p><p>“Don’t worry about it. We all have our moments. Dolores knows I’ve seen plenty of grown men bawling in front of me here at the bar...”</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> – You chuckle.</p><p>“Pretty sure I’m the only one who’s bawled in front of you while he was sober.”</p><p><strong>GARTE, THE CAFETERIA MANAGER</strong> – “You’d be surprised. Apparently, the moment people sit on those stools, they’re possessed by the irrepressible urge to divulge all of their heartaches to the bartender—”</p><p>He's interrupted by a loud ding from the kitchen.</p><p>“Ah, it seems your food is here. Shall I help you carry it up?”</p><p><strong>EMPATHY</strong> – He’s a good man, beneath that snooty tone and unevenly shaved stubble.</p><p><strong>YOU </strong>– “Nah, I can take care of it. Thanks for offering though. Oh, and uh...”</p><p>You offer the slightly soggy napkin to Garte, who wrinkles his nose and takes the napkin from you between his forefinger and pinky.</p><p>“Thanks again, Garte. Don’t mention this to my partner, okay?”</p><p><strong>GARTE, THE CAFETERIA MANAGER</strong> – He’s still holding the napkin in front of him like a small, dead creature.</p><p>“Of course, Detective. My lips are sealed.”</p><p><strong>DRAMA</strong> [Medium: Success] – He speaks the truth, sire.</p><p> </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> – Taking the tray of food from the kitchen counter, you start to carefully make your way up the stairs.</p><p><strong>COMPOSURE</strong> [Formidable: Success] – Your nose is still a bit stuffy, but other than that, Kim shouldn’t be able to tell that you’ve been crying.</p><p><strong>LOGIC</strong> – Speaking of Kim, what’s your next course of action? As much as you enjoy playing Suzerainty with each other, you’ll need to ask him questions that are directly related to the case soon...</p><p><strong>VOLITION</strong> – But before you even ask those questions, are you willing to pursue this investigation to the very end?</p><p><strong>HALF-LIGHT</strong> – Will you be brave enough to face the truth—</p><p><strong>PAIN THRESHOLD</strong> – Even if it breaks your heart?</p><p> </p><p><strong>SAVOIR FAIRE</strong> [Challenging: Success] – Despite being assailed by these excruciating questions, you manage to carry the food-laden tray to the second floor without any incident.</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> – As you pause to breathe a sigh of relief, you instinctively look towards Kim—</p><p><strong>KIM KITSURAGI</strong> – Only to see him looking towards you at the same time.</p><p>And when your eyes meet...</p><p><strong>VISUAL CALCULUS</strong> [Trivial: Success] - Smile #15 blooms on his lips.</p><p> </p><p><strong>REACTION SPEED </strong>[Formidable: Success] – In that luminous instant, the answer to all of those questions flashes through your mind.</p><p><strong>YOU </strong>-  Yes. I’ll see this case through.</p><p><strong>VOLITION </strong>[Legendary: Failure] – Enthralled by his smile, you remain rooted in place while Kim stands up and walks towards you.</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - I don’t know whether or not he killed those people, but even if he did—</p><p><strong>KIM KITSURAGI</strong> – “Let me help you with that, Harry.”</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - I’ll still try to save him. </p><p>Even if it hurts.</p><p><strong>ELECTROCHEMISTRY</strong> [Trivial: Success] – When he reaches over to take the tray from you, his hands brush against yours...</p><p><strong>EMPATHY </strong>[Trivial: Success] - ...and his eyes glimmer with fondness.</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - I'll save him.</p><p>Even if it kills me.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Kim waits until they’ve both finished eating before putting his plan into motion.</p><p>“I’d like to go outside for a smoke. Would you like to join me, Harry?”</p><p>The detective blinks at him. “Wouldn’t have pegged you for a smoker, Kim.”</p><p><em>He probably thinks we don’t drink alcohol either. He ordered fucking lemonade for us, for goodness sake</em>, Ace mutters darkly.  </p><p>Kim shrugs and takes a sip of his lemonade. “It’s a bad habit of mine. I only have one stick a day, usually before I go to bed. Helps me clear my head after a long day of work.”</p><p>Harry lets out an appreciative whistle. “Just one stick a day? That sounds tougher than quitting altogether... But sure, I’ll join you.”</p><p>They clear their plates from the table, and while Harry goes down to return the tray to the kitchen, Kim steps out into the balcony to wait for him there.</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>Are you sure about this?</em>
</p><p>As he mulls over Ace’s question, Kim shoves his hands in his pockets and stifles a shiver. It’s a colder night than he expected, and he should have just tempered his vanity and worn a thicker jacket tonight—</p><p>The door behind him opens, and before Kim can turn around to acknowledge Harry’s presence, he finds himself engulfed in the large, heavy jacket that’s being draped over his shoulders.</p><p>“That’s a bad-ass jacket,” Harry says cheekily. “But it does a piss-poor job of keeping you warm.”</p><p>Even as his ears burn with embarrassment, Kim tugs Harry’s suit jacket closer to himself and secretly breathes in the warm scents of sweet tobacco and vanilla...</p><p>
  
</p><p><em>Yes</em>, he decides.</p><p><em>Yes, I'm sure</em>.</p><hr/><p> </p><p><strong>KIM KITSURAGI</strong> - "Thanks for the coat, Harry. Aren't you cold, though?"</p><p><strong>PAIN THRESHOLD</strong> [Challenging: Success] - You're freezing your fucking balls off, but he doesn't need to know that.</p><p><strong>DRAMA</strong> [Challenging: Success] - Your ruddy complexion and hefty belly fat make it stupendously easy to feign warmth, sire!</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> – You pat your belly and shoot him a wink.</p><p>"I'm okay. It just so happens that I have my own personal furnace, if you know what I mean." </p><p><strong>KIM KITSURAGI</strong> - He hides a chuckle behind his fist.</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - You will never, ever get tired of making him smile like this.</p><p> </p><p><strong>KIM KITSURAGI</strong> – Reaching into his pockets, he pulls out a box of Astra cigarettes and taps out a stick for himself. Then, he offers the box to you.</p><p><strong>ELECTROCHEMISTRY</strong> [Easy: Success] - The mere thought of lighting up with Kim fills you with heady anticipation—not just because he's bound to look <em>devastatingly cool</em> when he smokes, but also because you're itching to remember what it's like to feel warm again.</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - You pluck out a cigarette and put it between your lips.</p><p>"Thanks, Kim."</p><p><strong>SAVOIR FAIRE</strong> [Easy: Success] - Now be a gentleman and offer him a light!</p><p><strong>INTERFACING</strong> [Easy: Success] - You quickly rummage around your pockets and take out your lighter, which you flick open and hold out towards Kim.</p><p><strong>KIM KITSURAGI</strong> - His eyes crinkle with gratitude. </p><p>"Thank you, Harry," he murmurs as he leans forward and lights up his cigarette.</p><p><strong>REACTION SPEED</strong> [Easy: Success] – A chill breeze rakes through the balcony, and you instinctively cup your hand around the flame to shield it.</p><p><strong>ELECTROCHEMISTRY</strong> – As you do so, your fingers almost brush against his cheek...</p><p><strong>PERCEPTION (SIGHT)</strong> – The flickering flame of your lighter casts a warm glow on the sharp arch of his cheekbones, and his eyelids flutter shut as he takes his first, luxurious inhale.</p><p><strong>CONCEPTUALIZATION</strong> [Easy: Success] - Light and darkness dance tremulously on his face like two specters battling for his soul.</p><p> </p><p><strong>KIM KITSURAGI</strong> – He finally draws away from you.</p><p><strong>COMPOSURE</strong> – And you finally remember to breathe.</p><p><strong>ELECTROCHEMISTRY </strong>– Quick! Light up your own stick so that you can be just as cool as he is!</p><p><strong>HAND/EYE COORDINATION</strong> [Medium: Success] – As you light up your cigarette, your hands tremble slightly—both from the cold and from the sheer exhilaration of being this close to him.</p><p><strong>ELECTROCHEMISTRY</strong> [Trivial: Success] – Immediately, a heavenly rush of nicotine blitzes through your nerves and covers your mind in a soothing haze.</p><p>
  
</p><p><strong>KIM KITSURAGI</strong> – His eyes gently trace over your features, as if he were committing your blissful expression to memory...</p><p>Then, he pads towards the balcony railing, leaving behind an ethereal trail of smoke in his wake.</p><p><strong>VOLITION</strong> [Godly: Failure] – Like a dog on an invisible leash, you allow yourself to be pulled by his irresistible presence until you come to rest by his side.</p><p> </p><p><strong>SHIVERS</strong> – Martinaise is strangely peaceful tonight. To your right, the Bling Bling Bonanza Pinball Emporium glares in the darkness like a blinding, neon-lit bastion, and a constant flow of customers—mostly dockworkers and teenagers—pass through its doors. To your left, the statue of Filippe III keeps its eternal vigil over the roundabout, and from this angle, the vandalized monarch seems to be pointing an accusatory finger at you and Kim. In front of you, the waterfront glistens with melted sleet and snow, and beyond it, the vast expanse of the ocean undulates across the horizon like an endless mass of shadows. </p><p><strong>YOU </strong>– As you and Kim spend the next few moments smoking in companionable silence, you find yourself marveling at the fact that he’s actually here, standing beside you, with your coat draped over his shoulders and his arm mere inches away from your own...</p><p><strong>LOGIC</strong> - Just two days ago, you had no idea that he even existed, and you were more than content with your life. You have good friends, a highly successful career in law enforcement, and a modest, but cozy, apartment that's slightly too big for just one man, but is just the right size for one man with twenty-four voices in his head. </p><p><strong>PAIN THRESHOLD</strong> - But now, you know for a fact that if you returned to that life, then his absence would haunt you like a beloved specter. Every time you go out with your colleagues, you will wonder whether he would have gotten along with them. Every time you solve a case, your first instinct will be to tell him about it so that he can rejoice with you or roll his eyes at your antics. Every time you return to your apartment, you will find it far too empty and far too big, and you will fall asleep every night wishing that he will be there on the other side of your bed when you wake up.</p><p><strong>LOGIC</strong> - All of this should have made you wish that you've never met him.</p><p>But instead, it just makes you wonder how you've managed to live this long without him by your side. </p><p> </p><p><strong>AUTHORITY</strong> – From this angle, he looks like an emperor surveying his dominion.</p><p><strong>CONCEPTUALIZATION</strong> – Or a seafarer looking out into the ocean, trying to find his way home.</p><p><strong>PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT</strong> – He might seem formidable, but he looks frail and small beneath the bulk of your jacket. </p><p><strong>SAVOIR FAIRE </strong>– In fact, if you were to, let’s say, <em>casually</em> drape your arm over his shoulders right now, he probably won’t make too much of a fuss about it...</p><p><strong>VOLITION</strong> [Legendary: Failure] – Propelled by a will of its own, one of your hands stealthily starts to reach over his back...</p><p><strong>SAVOIR FAIRE</strong> – He hasn't noticed it! Keep going!</p><p><strong>PERCEPTION</strong> – Your fingers flex towards his shoulder—</p><p> </p><p><strong>KIM KITSURAGI</strong> – “Would you like to play a different game, Harry?”</p><p><strong>REACTION SPEED</strong> [Godly: Success] – Your arm jerks back at the speed of light.</p><p><strong>ELECTROCHEMISTRY</strong> [Godly: Failure] – <em>No</em>!!!! You were so, so close!!!!!</p><p><strong>KIM KITSURAGI</strong> – His lips quirk up around his cigarette, and you get the distinct feeling that he was fully aware of what you were up to.</p><p><strong>SAVOIR FAIRE </strong>[Challenging: Failure] – That’s ridiculous! You were being so sneaky that even <em>you </em>weren’t aware of what your own arm was doing!</p><p><strong>COMPOSURE</strong> [Legendary: Success] – Right now, your mind might be going “<em>Shit shit shit shit shit,</em>” but your face is a mask of pure innocence.</p><p>
  
</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> – “What kind of game?”</p><p><strong>KIM KITSURAGI</strong> – “It’s simple. We take turns asking each other yes-or-no questions. It’s up to us if we want to explain our answers or not.”</p><p><strong>LOGIC </strong>– He’s right. It does sound simple.</p><p><strong>RHETORIC</strong> – Compared to Suzerainty, even advanced differential calculus sounds simple. But why can’t you shake off the feeling that he’s up to something...?</p><p><strong>DRAMA</strong> – His proposal is quite intriguing, sire! Will the Sacred Compact apply to this game as well?</p><p><strong>YOU </strong>– You wiggle your pinky in the air.</p><p>“Pinky promise still holds?”</p><p><strong>KIM KITSURAGI</strong> – He wiggles his pinky too.</p><p>“Yes. Pinky promise still holds.”</p><p><strong>COMPOSURE </strong>– The fact that he managed to do that with a straight face is a testament to his incredible poise. </p><p> </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> – “Great! Do you want to go first?”</p><p><strong>KIM KITSURAGI</strong> – “Sure. Let me think for a bit...”</p><p><strong>RHETORIC</strong> – In the meantime, you should probably start thinking of questions for him.</p><p><strong>LOGIC</strong> – Thankfully, it just so happens that you already have a stupendously long list of questions, starting with,  “Did you kill your siblings?”</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> – You almost spit out your cigarette.</p><p><em>What</em>????!!!! I can’t ask him that!!!!</p><p><strong>LOGIC </strong>– Okay, what about, “Did you drive that car into the ocean?”</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - This is a game, not a bloody interrogation!!!!!</p><p> </p><p><strong>KIM KITSURAGI</strong> -  As your mind races to come up with better questions, Kim nods to himself and exhales a plume of smoke into the air.</p><p>“Am I a suspect in your investigation?”</p><p><strong>COMPOSURE</strong> [Godly: Failure] – You spit out your cigarette.</p><p><strong>PERCEPTION (SIGHT)</strong> [Godly: Success] - Propelled by a small explosion of smoke, ash, and spittle, your wasted cigarette gracefully sails through the air before plummeting to its death.</p><p><strong>ELECTROCHEMISTRY </strong>[Godly: Failure] - Farewell, carcinogenic stick of pure joy!</p><p><strong>SAVOIR FAIRE</strong> [Godly: Failure] - Farewell, every single shred of your dignity!</p><p><strong>COMPOSURE</strong> [Godly: Failure] - Yes, of course, truly heartbreaking, boo-hoo, but can you please shift your attention back to the fact that <em>Kim just asked you if he was a suspect in your investigation????</em>!!!!</p><p> </p><p><strong>KIM KITSURAGI</strong> - He's waiting for your answer with a look of infinite patience.</p><p><strong>LOGIC</strong> [Godly: Failure] - Meanwhile, your brain scrambles to make sense of what the fuck is going on. </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - "P-pardon???" </p><p><strong>KIM KITSURAGI</strong> – “Am I a suspect in your investigation?”</p><p><strong>PERCEPTION (HEARING)</strong> [Easy: Success] - He said that with the same unflappable calm that he used when he asked you the first time.</p><p><strong>HALF-LIGHT</strong> [Easy: Success] - He's onto you, he's going to clam up and push you away and <em>you'll never get to see him again</em>— </p><p><strong>EMPATHY </strong>[Medium: Success] – Calm down. He doesn’t seem to be afraid. Or angry. Or suspicious.</p><p>If anything, he just seems...curious.</p><p> </p><p><strong>COMPOSURE</strong> [Godly: Failure] – Oh, god. What...what should you tell him????!!!!</p><p><strong>DRAMA</strong> – My liege, there is but only one acceptable answer to his question.</p><p><strong>HALF-LIGHT</strong> [Easy: Success] – No! He’ll think that you’ve just been spending time with him for the sake of the investigation—</p><p><strong>LOGIC </strong>– Which is true.</p><p><strong>ELECTROCHEMISTRY</strong> – Well, not <em>completely</em>...</p><p><strong>RHETORIC</strong> – Look at it this way. If you tell him the truth now, then he’ll probably tell you the truth too when it's your turn to ask him a question.</p><p><strong>DRAMA</strong> – And may I remind you that you are<em> obligated</em> to answer truthfully, sire?</p><p>  </p><p><strong>YOU </strong>– You gulp.</p><p>“...Yes.”</p><p><strong>HALF-LIGHT</strong> [Easy: Success] – That's it, you've done it now, <em>he's going to</em>— </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - You shut your eyes and brace yourself for his inevitable outrage—</p><p>But it never comes. </p><p> </p><p><strong>HALF-LIGHT</strong> - ...Wait, what?</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - You crack open one eye to look at him.</p><p><strong>COMPOSURE</strong> [Medium: Success] - He looks completely unfazed, as if you just told him your favorite color again, and not that you suspected him of being involved in a double homicide.</p><p><strong>KIM KITSURAGI</strong> - “Alright, Harry. It’s your turn to ask me a question.”</p><p><strong>EMPATHY</strong> [Legendary: Failure] – Why isn’t he mad???</p><p><strong>COMPOSURE</strong> [Legendary: Failure] – Why isn’t he freaking out???</p><p><strong>YOU </strong>– And what the <em>hell</em> am I supposed to ask him???!!!</p><p>
  
</p><p><strong>LOGIC</strong> – Wait, let’s try to make sense of this...</p><p>First, he's the one who initiated this game. Second, his first question was about your case. Third, he didn't freak out when you told him that he was a suspect.</p><p>If you put all of that together, the only reasonable conclusion is that—</p><p><strong>HALF-LIGHT</strong> [Legendary: Failure] – It’s a trap!!!</p><p><strong>LOGI</strong><strong>C </strong>[Challenging: Success] -  No.</p><p>He <em>wants</em> you to ask him about the case. </p><p> </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - You stare at Kim in confusion.</p><p><strong>PERCEPTION (SIGHT)</strong> [Heroic: Success] - Suddenly, you see a strange glint in his eyes...</p><p><strong>EMPATHY</strong> [Legendary: Success] - Warmth. Resignation. Sadness.</p><p>But not a single trace of fear.</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - Then it hits you.</p><p> </p><p><strong>EMPATHY</strong> [Legendary: Success] - He trusts you.</p><p>He really, <em>really</em> trusts you.</p><p> </p><p><strong>COMPOSURE</strong> [Heroic: Failure] – If you still had your cigarette right now, then it would have fallen from your numb lips.</p><p>But as it stands, you just gape dumbly at him, utterly astounded by the weight of his trust.</p><p><strong>KIM KITSURAGI</strong> – He looks away from you and stares out into the night once again . But when he lifts his cigarette to his lips—</p><p><strong>PERCEPTION (SIGHT)</strong> [Legendary: Success] - His hand trembles ever so slightly. </p><p> </p><p><strong>RHETORIC</strong> - Would you like me to take over?</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - ...No.</p><p>No, I'll handle this.</p><p> </p><p><strong>EMPATHY</strong> - You're standing on sacred ground.</p><p>Tread carefully.</p><p> </p><p><strong>COMPOSURE</strong> [Formidable: Success] - You take a deep breath to collect yourself.</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - Then, you follow his gaze and stare out into the darkness as well.</p><p>"Did you drive that car into the ocean, Kim?"</p><p> </p><p><strong>PERCEPTION</strong> [Easy: Success] – His shoulder sags with relief against your own.</p><p><strong>KIM KITSURAGI</strong> – “Yes.”</p><p><strong>PAIN THRESHOLD</strong> [Legendary: Failure] – That word hits you like a punch in the gut.</p><p><strong>DRAMA</strong> [Trivial: Success] – He tells the truth, sire.</p><p><strong>LOGIC</strong> – You knew that it was a possibility, but nothing could have prepared you for the shock of hearing him say it outright. </p><p><strong>VOLITION </strong>[Challenging: Success] – Even as your heart crumbles in your chest, you muster up the courage to ask him the question that’s been eating away at you for the past two days.</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - “Why?”</p><p> </p><p><strong>KIM KITSURAGI</strong> - He gives you a small, sad smile.</p><p>"Yes or no questions only, Harry."</p><p><strong>PERCEPTION (HEARING)</strong> [Medium: Success] - It's not a rebuke. Just a gentle reminder.</p><p><strong>YOU </strong>– You wince. “Sorry, Kim. I just... I couldn’t help myself.”   </p><p><strong>KIM KITSURAGI</strong> - "It's alright," he says, taking a puff of his cigarette. "You must have been itching to ask me that question."</p><p><strong>EMPATHY</strong> [Formidable: Success] - But he still won't tell you why he did it. Unless...</p><p><strong>RHETORIC </strong>[Formidable: Success] - Unless you phrase your questions according to the rule.</p><p><strong>LOGIC</strong> - But why did he set it in the first place? He wants you to ask him about the case, but he's not willing to speak freely about it with you.</p><p><strong>RHETORIC</strong> - Wonder about that later. Right now, it's his turn to ask you something.</p><p> </p><p><strong>KIM KITSURAGI</strong> - He taps off the ash from his cigarette.</p><p>"Do you think I killed those people?"</p><p><strong>PAIN THRESHOLD</strong> [Legendary: Failure] - Why is he asking all the <em>hard</em> questions????? Your poor heart won't be able to take much more of this!</p><p><strong>RHETORIC</strong> [Easy: Success] - But you know your answer to this one. Now say it with conviction— </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - "<em>No!!!</em> Of course not!"</p><p> </p><p><strong>KIM KITSURAGI</strong> - He blinks at you.</p><p><strong>RHETORIC</strong> - Okay, you might have said that with <em>too much</em> conviction. </p><p><strong>EMPATHY</strong> [Formidable: Success] - He's taken aback by the vehemence of your response, but he's also touched by your belief in his innocence.</p><p> </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - You look at him straight in the eyes.</p><p>"You'd never do such a thing."</p><p><strong>KIM KITSURAGI</strong> - He barks out a harsh laugh.</p><p><b>PAIN THRESHOLD </b>[Legendary: Failure]- There was no joy in that sound. Only pain and despair.</p><p><strong>KIM KITSURAGI</strong> - "You don't know me, Harry," he murmurs with a shake of his head. "You don't know what I've done—"</p><p><strong>INLAND EMPIRE</strong> [Legendary: Success] - A bespectacled boy, barely ten years old, stands in front of a bound and blindfolded man who's kneeling on the ground. Behind the boy stands a tall figure cloaked in darkness, who whispers into his ear and presses a loaded gun into his hands...</p><p>When the boy pulls the trigger, his soul fractures into two broken halves.</p><p> </p><p><strong>EMPATHY </strong>[Godly: Success] - As that ancient and terrible gunshot echoes through your mind, you suddenly realize what you need to do.</p><p><strong>RHETORIC</strong> [Godly: Success] - And what question you need to ask him.</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - "Kim."</p><p><strong>KIM KITSURAGI</strong> - He refuses to look at you.</p><p><strong>SAVOIR FAIRE</strong> [Formidable: Success] - After a brief moment of hesitation, you raise a hand to touch his face—</p><p><strong>KIM KITSURAGI</strong> - He flinches away.</p><p><strong>EMPATHY</strong> [Legendary: Success] - That was pure instinct. He won't resist if you try again.</p><p><strong>VOLITION</strong> [Formidable: Success] - Reassured by this insight, your hand crosses the space between you and comes to rest on his cheek. </p><p><strong>PERCEPTION (TOUCH)</strong> - His skin is smooth and cold under your fingers. </p><p><strong>ELECTROCHEMISTRY</strong> [Trivial: Success] - And when you brush your thumb over the curve of his jaw, he shivers under your touch.</p><p> </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - "Kim."</p><p><strong>KIM KITSURAGI</strong> - It takes a few seconds, but he finally meets your gaze.</p><p><strong>EMPATHY</strong> [Legendary: Success] - And there, glimmering in the depths of his eyes—</p><p>The faintest tinge of fear.</p><p><strong>ELECTROCHEMISTRY</strong> - Right now, you want nothing more than to gather him in your arms and tell him that no matter what he's done, you will never, ever hurt him—</p><p><strong>VOLITION</strong> [Godly: Success] - But before you can do that, you first need to dispel the shadows that haunt his conscience.</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - "Did you kill your siblings, Kim?"</p><p> </p><p><strong>KIM KITSURAGI</strong> - His breath hitches in his throat.</p><p>"What?"</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - You remove your hand from his cheek, but continue to hold his gaze.</p><p>"King. Queen. They were your siblings, weren't they?"</p><p><strong>COMPOSURE</strong> [Challenging: Success] - He looks absolutely stricken. His eyes are wide, and his lips are parted.</p><p><strong>ELECTROCHEMISTRY</strong> - You find yourself staring at his slightly open mouth—  </p><p><strong>VOLITION</strong> [Godly: Success] - His eyes are up there, big boy. Now get ready to listen to his answer.</p><p> </p><p><b>KIM KITSURAGI </b>- After a few more moments of stunned silence, he shakes his head in disbelief and looks at you with awe.</p><p>"No wonder they call you the Human Can Opener. I thought the rumors were exaggerated, but it looks like you're the real deal after all..."</p><p><strong>AUTHORITY</strong> [Challenging: Success] - He's impressed.</p><p><strong>EMPATHY</strong> [Challenging: Success] - He's relieved.</p><p><strong>ELECTROCHEMISTRY</strong> [Challenging: Success] - He's also mildly turned on.</p><p> </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - Seagull, please.</p><p><strong>CONCEPTUALIZATION</strong> [Easy: Success] - A flock of seagulls happily descend upon your frazzled brain and perform unspeakable acts of regurgitation.</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - I just wanted <strong><em>one</em> </strong>seagull, not a whole goddamned flock!!!!!!!</p><p><strong>LOGIC</strong> - Now that you can think straight again, how did he know that you were called the Human Can Opener?</p><p><strong>RHETORIC</strong> - Why don't you go ahead and ask him that? Just make sure to follow the rules.</p><p> </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - "Did your family tell you about me?"</p><p><strong>AUTHORITY</strong> [Easy: Success] - He seems impressed by your deduction.</p><p><strong>KIM KITSURAGI</strong> - "Yes."</p><p><strong>VOLITION</strong> [Easy: Success] - In case you were expecting him to explain that, then tough luck, buddy.</p><p><strong>LOGIC</strong> [Formidable: Success] - Thankfully, he doesn't need to. If his family knows about <em>that</em> particular nickname of yours, then they must have ties to either the RCM or to its innumerable enemies. </p><p><strong>RHETORIC</strong> - I'm with the enemies on this one. Organized crime syndicates commonly refer to themselves as "families", after all.</p><p><strong>HALF-LIGHT</strong> - But if Kim's part of a crime family, then...</p><p><strong>PAIN THRESHOLD</strong> [Godly: Failure] - Then you can't be with him.</p><p> </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - You eject that excruciating thought from your mind and redirect your attention back to Kim.</p><p>"You haven't answered my question yet. Did you kill your siblings?"</p><p><strong>PAIN THRESHOLD</strong> - Please let his answer be no, please, please, <em>please</em>—</p><p><strong>KIM KITSURAGI</strong> - He shakes his head.</p><p>"No, I didn't."</p><p><strong>DRAMA</strong> [Easy: Success] - The truth, my liege!!!!</p><p><strong>COMPOSURE</strong> [Legendary: Failure] - A powerful wave of relief crashes over you—your knees tremble, your vision swims, and your lungs release the breath that you didn't know that you were holding back.  </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - Groaning, you hunch over the railing and bury your face into your hands.</p><p>"Oh thank Dolores..." </p><p> </p><p><strong>KIM KITSURAGI</strong> - He contemplates your relief with mute wonder.</p><p><strong>EMPATHY</strong> [Challenging: Success] - He's both consoled and perplexed by your reaction. He's consoled because it shows that you actually care for him, but he's perplexed because he can't understand why you would care so much for someone that you just met two days ago...</p><p><strong>LOGIC</strong> [Godly: Failure] - To be honest, you don't know why you care so much about him either.</p><p>You just...do.</p><p><strong>INLAND EMPIRE</strong> [Legendary: Success] - Reality is a house with many doors, and behind each one lies a different world, a different lifetime. And you know, with a mysterious, inexplicable certainty, that no matter which door you step through, he will always find you...</p><p>And you will always find him.   </p><p> </p><p><strong>KIM KITSURAGI</strong> - "I want to ask you how you found out that they were my siblings, but..."</p><p><strong>RHETORIC</strong> - But then, he'd be breaking his own rules.</p><p><strong>VOLITION</strong> [Godly: Failure] - You know what? Fuck this game. He wants to know what you know just as badly as you want to know what he knows.</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - "Kim, you can ask me anything. Hell, I'll tell you how I connected the dots, even if you don't ask me."</p><p><strong>KIM KITSURAGI</strong> - He looks at you pensively.</p><p><strong>EMPATHY</strong> [Formidable: Success] - He desperately wants to take up your offer, but at the same time, he's stopping himself because...</p><p><strong>LOGIC</strong> [Formidable: Success] - Because there are some questions that he thinks you shouldn't know the answer to.</p><p> </p><p><strong>PAIN THRESHOLD</strong> [Heroic: Failure] - But...You thought that he trusted you— </p><p><strong>EMPATHY</strong> [Legendary: Success] - He does trust you.</p><p>It's himself that he doesn't trust.</p><p><strong>LOGIC</strong> [Legendary: Failure] - If anything, that just makes things even more confusing.</p><p> </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - Before you can figure out the reason behind his hesitation, Kim speaks up.</p><p><strong>KIM KITSURAGI</strong> - "I appreciate your candidness, Harry," he says softly. "But I'd like to stick by the rules, if it's alright with you."</p><p><strong>LOGIC</strong> [Legendary: Failure] - What's he hiding from you?</p><p><strong>HALF-LIGHT</strong> [Legendary: Failure] - What's he so afraid of?</p><p><strong>RHETORIC</strong> - Looks like you'll have to play by his terms, if you want this conversation to continue.</p><p>Are you willing to do that?</p><p> </p><p><strong>VOLITION</strong> [Legendary: Success] - At this point, you're willing to do absolutely <em>anything</em> for him, so following this stupid rule should be a piece of cake. </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - "Alright, Kim. We'll play by your rules."</p><p><strong>KIM KITSURAGI</strong> - He gives you a weary, but grateful smile.</p><p>"Thank you, Harry."</p><p><strong>DRAMA</strong> [Trivial: Success] - His gratitude is genuine and heartfelt, my liege.</p><p> </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - "Do you have something that you want to ask me?"</p><p><strong>KIM KITSURAGI</strong> - After a moment of pensive silence, he stubs out his cigarette on the sole of his boot and turns to look at you. </p><p>"When you asked me out yesterday and today...Have you been doing that just to get information out of me?"</p><p><strong>LOGIC</strong> [Legendary: Failure] - Yes.</p><p><strong>RHETORIC</strong> [Legendary: Failure] - Yes.</p><p><strong>ELECTROCHEMISTRY</strong> [Legendary: Success] - Are you fucking kidding me??? <em>No</em>!!!!</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - "Hell, no. I've been asking you out to get information out of you and also because I really, <em>really</em> like you."</p><p> </p><p><strong>COMPOSURE</strong> [Godly: Failure] - As you say those last five words, your mind finally catches up with your mouth, and your face bursts into flames. </p><p><strong>KIM KITSURAGI</strong> - Meanwhile, Kim is looking at you as if—well, as if you've just told him that you really, <em>really</em> like him.  </p><p><strong>PERCEPTION (SIGHT)</strong> [Medium: Success] - His ears aren't as red as your face, but it's a pretty close fight</p><p> </p><p><strong>ELECTROCHEMISTRY</strong> - Wait. You've just opened a whole new line of questioning, buddy!!! Go on, <em>ask him</em>!!!!</p><p><strong>LOGIC</strong> - You might want to swerve your mind back into the realm of reason and ask him about the case—</p><p><strong>ELECTROCHEMISTRY</strong> - <em>No</em>!!! This is so much more important than those dead people!!!!</p><p><strong>LOGIC</strong> - ...Okay, that's just wrong on so many levels.</p><p><strong>VOLITION</strong> [Godly: Failure] - Unfortunately, the question propels itself out of your mouth before your brain can stop it.</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - "Do you like me too?"</p><p> </p><p><strong>AUTHORITY</strong> [Legendary: Failure] - <em>What???!!!!</em></p><p><strong>DRAMA</strong> - Bravo, sire!!! An honest question that springs from the very depths of your deplorably smitten heart!</p><p><strong>PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT</strong> [Legendary: Failure] - Are you kidding me??? You sounded like a nervous teenager confessing to their fucking crush!!!!</p><p><strong>ESPRIT DE CORPS</strong> [Easy: Success] - That sounded like something Lt. Vicquemare would have said, only he would have added "shitkid" at the very end.</p><p><strong>ELECTROCHEMISTRY</strong> - Shut up, guys!!! Kim's about to answer!!!</p><p> </p><p><strong>KIM KITSURAGI</strong> - He stares at you in shock.</p><p><strong>COMPOSURE</strong> - You wait for his answer with bated breath—</p><p><strong>KIM KITSURAGI</strong> - After a few more seconds of stunned silence, he looks away from you and coughs into his fist.</p><p>"...Yes."</p><p> </p><p><strong>PERCEPTION (HEARING)</strong> [Easy: Success] - You heard that loud and clear.</p><p><strong>DRAMA</strong> [Formidable: Success] - But may I suggest...<em>twisting the knife</em> a bit, sire?</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - You plaster a puzzled look on your face and crane your ear towards him. </p><p>"Sorry, Kim. I didn't quite hear that... Could you say that again?"</p><p> </p><p><strong>HALF-LIGHT</strong> [Medium: Success] - If looks could kill, you would be a smouldering pile of ash right now.</p><p><strong>COMPOSURE</strong> [Medium: Success] - But even though he looks like he wants to murder you, he's also biting his lip as if he were stopping himself from smiling.</p><p><strong>KIM KITSURAGI</strong> - "Yes. I...I like you too, Harry."</p><p> </p><p><strong>DRAMA</strong> [Trivial: Success] - The...</p><p>
  <em>The truth, sire!!!!!!!!!!!!</em>
</p><p> </p><p><strong>SAVOIR FAIRE</strong> [Trivial: Success] - WHIP OUT THOSE FINGER GUNS, PARTNER!!!!!!!!!!</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - With an ecstatic howl of pure joy, you fire your finger guns wildly into the air and dance around the balcony like a madman while Kim watches on in embarrassed amusement. </p><p><strong>KIM KITSURAGI</strong> - "Harry—"</p><p><strong>PERCEPTION (HEARING)</strong> [Challenging: Failure] - You're too busy doing a happy little jig to pay attention to anything else right now.</p><p><strong>KIM KITSURAGI</strong> - "<em>Harry</em>—" </p><p><strong>SAVOIR FAIRE</strong>  [Trivial: Success] - Take<em> that</em>, Bling Bling Bonanza! (Pew!) And <em>that</em>, equestrian-statue-of-Filippe-the-Third!!! (Pew-pew!)</p><p><strong>ELECTROCHEMISTRY</strong> - Wait!!!! If Kim likes you too, then that means you can<em> totally</em>—</p><p><strong>REACTION SPEED</strong> [Godly: Failure] - But before you can finish that train of thought, someone grabs you by the collar and—</p><p> </p><p><strong>ELECTROCHEMISTRY</strong> [Godly: Success] - ...Yeah.</p><p>Yeah. That.</p><p> </p><p><strong>KIM KITSURAGI</strong> - After a few breathless seconds, he pulls away from you and peers up at your stunned face.</p><p>"Did you have to be so loud?" he murmurs against your lips.</p><p><strong>LOGIC</strong> [Godly: Failure] - Your neocortex has been fried to a crisp.</p><p><strong>CONCEPTUALIZATION</strong> [Godly: Failure] - Speaking of fried, that poor flock of seagulls never knew what hit 'em.</p><p><strong>PERCEPTION</strong> [Godly: Failure] - There is nothing. Nothing except his hands gripping your collar. Nothing except his warm breath ghosting over your face. Nothing except that small, devastating smile on his glistening lips—</p><p><strong>VOLITION</strong> [Godly: Failure] - Then, deep inside your soul...</p><p>A dam breaks.</p><p> </p><p><strong>PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT</strong> [Legendary: Success] - Before Kim can react, you take him by the shoulders and press him up bodily against the glass windows of the Whirling. </p><p><b>KIM KITSURAGI </b>- A gasp escapes his lips, only to be muffled when you claim his mouth in a desperate and ferocious kiss.</p><p><strong>PERCEPTION</strong> [Legendary: Success] - He tastes like cigarettes and lemonade; he smells like the ocean and sandalwood and citrus; you feel every shudder, every tremor, every quiver that runs through his slender frame— </p><p><strong>ELECTROCHEMISTRY</strong> [Legendary: Success] - He moans into your mouth, and that earth-shattering sound reverberates through your entire body and sets fire to your loins. His tongue slides wetly against yours, and you groan out loud when he grinds against your thigh—</p><p><strong>VOLITION</strong> [Godly: Failure] - You snake a hand up his shirt and slide your palm against the cool, shuddering expanse of his back—</p><p> </p><p><strong>PAIN THRESHOLD</strong> [Legendary: Failure] - All of a sudden, a fist jabs into your ribs and knocks the air out of your lungs.</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - You jerk back from him with a wince, only to see him giving you a smug look. </p><p><strong>COMPOSURE</strong> [Medium: Success] - He would have looked more smug if his lips weren't so swollen and his jacket wasn't hanging off his shoulder.</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - "What the hell was that for?" you say, rubbing your bruised ribs.</p><p><strong>KIM KITSURAGI</strong> - He gives you a withering glare. "Your hands were fucking cold, you monster."</p><p><strong>COMPOSURE</strong> [Medium: Success] - Despite his words, his eyes still simmer with arousal, and a smile dances along the edges of his mouth.</p><p> </p><p><strong>PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT</strong> [Challenging: Success] - Monster?! You'll show him who's a monster...</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - You narrow your eyes at Kim and raise up your hands like claws...</p><p><strong>KIM KITSURAGI</strong> - He looks at you with apprehensive terror.</p><p>"Harry, what are you—"</p><p><strong>PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT</strong> [Challenging: Success] - <em>Attack</em>!!!!!</p><p> </p><p><strong>KIM KITSURAGI</strong> - He barely has any time to put his hands up before you attack his sides with a merciless barrage of tickles.</p><p>"H-Harry, no stop—!!!!" </p><p><strong>PERCEPTION (HEARING)</strong> - His protests are interrupted by peals of laughter, and you absolutely cannot hear enough of that beautiful sound—  </p><p><strong>COMPOSURE</strong> - Your face hurts from smiling too much, but you don't give a damn.</p><p><strong>REACTION SPEED</strong> [Godly: Failure] - Watch out, he's about to—!!!</p><p><b>KIM KITSURAGI </b>- In a flash, he takes your face between his hands and pulls you in for another mindblowing kiss.</p><p><strong>ELECTROCHEMISTRY</strong> [Trivial: Success] - This one is slower and more languid, a roving, heated exploration of each other's mouths rather than a frenzied, feverish assault.</p><p><strong>SAVOIR FAIRE</strong> [Trivial: Success] - As you smile against his lips, you finally, finally take him into your arms, and he fits against your body just as perfectly as you imagined.</p><p><strong>KIM KITSURAGI</strong> - When you inevitably draw apart to breathe, he leans forward and brushes his lips against your ear.</p><p>"Would you like to walk me home, Harry?" he whispers.</p><p> </p><p><strong>ELECTROCHEMISTRY</strong> - Walk him home???? Just throw him over your shoulder and carry him off to your room so that you can ravish him already!!!</p><p><strong>LOGIC</strong> - As much as I hate to say it, the horny guy makes a really good point. I mean, your room's just right there—</p><p><strong>EMPATHY</strong> [Legendary: Success] - Are you really going to spend your first night with Kim in the motel where his siblings could have been murdered?</p><p><strong>VOLITION</strong> [Legendary: Success] - That realization douses out your heated thoughts like a splash of ice-cold water.</p><p> </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - Keeping your arms loosely circled around his waist, you draw back to gaze deeply into his eyes.</p><p><strong>SAVOIR FAIRE</strong> [Heroic: Success] - Then, with utmost reverence, you take one of his hands and press your lips against his bare knuckles.</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - "Anything you want, Kim."</p><p><strong>VOLITION</strong> [Godly: Failure] - If he asked you to tell him everything you knew about the case, you would. If he asked you to delve into Le Royaume and bring him back the Cocaine Skull, you would. If he asked you to tear open your chest and carve out your own heart, you would. </p><p><strong>KIM KITSURAGI</strong> - But as it stands, he merely looks up at you with a small smile on his face and a glimmer of hope in his eyes.</p><p>"Alright. Let's go then."</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - You don't let go of his hand until you reach his apartment.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>As he and Harry jog through the streets of Martinaise like a pair of lovestruck teenagers, Kim absently wonders about what he could have possibly done to deserve this remarkable man.</p><p><em>I can't believe that he figured out our relationship to King and Queen</em>, Ace says. </p><p>When they walk past the pinball arcade, Harry squeezes his hand and gives him a brilliant smile.</p><p><em>I can't believe we’re actually with him right now</em>, Kim replies. </p><p> </p><p>The memory of the searing kisses that they shared on the Whirling's balcony blazes through his mind, and Kim absolutely cannot wait to drag Harry into his apartment and finally have his way with him...</p><p><em>I’ll let you go first</em>, Ace murmurs, and Kim feels his entire body thrum with anticipation.</p><p>They don’t let go of each other’s hands, even as Kim unlocks the front door of his apartment building and pulls Harry into the doorway, even as they make their way through the corridors and climb up the stairs, even as Kim slots his key into his doorlock and—</p><p>Kim freezes.</p><p> </p><p>“Kim?" Harry asks with a worried frown. "What’s wrong?”</p><p>Kim doesn't answer him.</p><p>Instead, he stares at his unlocked door and imagines who’s waiting for him inside—a small figure bundled in a thick, fur-lined coat, lounging on his couch with a smile on their lips and a knife in their hands...</p><p> </p><p>Harry's eyes widen with realization. </p><p>“Shit," he whispers.</p><p> </p><p>Suddenly, Harry steps forward and tries to place himself between Kim and the door—</p><p>Kim grabs his arm to stop him. </p><p>“No, Harry. It’s too dangerous—"</p><p>“I know. That’s why I should go first.”</p><p> </p><p><em>Fucking self-sacrificial bastard</em>—</p><p>“No,” Kim says, ignoring Ace’s indignant voice in his head, “they’re less likely to attack if they see me first—”</p><p>“Less likely isn’t good enough,” Harry growls.</p><p> </p><p>Then, he pushes Kim behind him and kicks the door open.</p><p> </p><p>Kim's mind races with panic, and he moves to throw himself between Harry and Joker’s knife—   </p><p>But no one comes out.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><strong>PERCEPTION (SIGHT)</strong> [Heroic: Success] - As you peer into the dark interior of Kim's apartment, you can make out a hunched figure sitting in the middle of his living room...</p><p><strong>PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT</strong> [Easy: Success] - You glance behind you to make sure that you're shielding Kim with your body.</p><p><b>PERCEPTION</b> [Heroic: Success] - Then, you reach for the wall and grope for the lightswitch—</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>After a few seconds, Harry manages to turn on the lights, </p><p>And Kim cannot comprehend what he sees.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><strong>LOGIC</strong> [Impossible: Failure] - What's going on?</p><p><strong>REACTION SPEED</strong> [Impossible: Failure] - This can't be happening.</p><p><strong>YOU</strong>- You gape at the figure seated in the middle of Kim's living room.</p><p><strong>ESPRIT DE CORPS</strong> [Impossible: Failure] - He shouldn't be here— </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - "Jean?"</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>There, sitting unconscious in one of Kim's dining chairs, is Harry's partner. His head is hanging limply over his chest, while his hands seem to be bound behind his back— </p><p>Utterly bewildered, Kim looks at Harry's face, but the detective seems just as stunned as he is.</p><p>"Jean?" Harry whispers again.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><strong>JEAN VICQUEMARE</strong> - He doesn't stir.</p><p><strong>HALF-LIGHT</strong> [Trivial: Success] - A cold fist seizes your heart.</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - "Jean!"</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>As Harry rushes towards his unconscious partner, Kim struggles to make sense of what's happening— </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>It was a trap.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Kim blinks.</p><p>
  <em>What?</em>
</p><p> </p><p><em>It was a fucking trap</em>, Ace says quietly.<em> And we fell right into it.</em></p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - When you finally reach Jean's side, you crouch down and gingerly lift his head to check on him—</p><p><strong>PERCEPTION </strong>- The right side of his face is swollen and bruised, and when you gently run your fingers over his scalp, you're horrified to discover that your fingers come away sticky with blood.  </p><p><strong>VISUAL CALCULUS</strong> [Formidable: Success] - His injuries are consistent with blunt force head trauma. </p><p><b>HAND/EYE COORDINATION </b>[Formidable: Success]- You quickly lift up each of his eyelids and peer into his eyes.</p><p><strong>VISUAL CALCULUS</strong> [Formidable: Success] - His pupils are dilated. He has a concussion, and he needs medical attention <em>right now</em>.</p><p><strong>HALF-LIGHT</strong> [Easy: Success] - The panicked thudding of your heart fills your mind as you move behind Jean and start untying his bound hands.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><em>No</em>, Kim whispers. </p><p><em>No, Harry would never</em>— </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><strong>HAND/EYE COORDINATION</strong> - Whoever tied this knot was a fucking pro, but you're almost done!</p><p><strong>LOGIC</strong> [Impossible: Failure] - But what's Jean doing here in the first place? And who the hell did this to him???</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Suddenly, Kim's eyes land on his dining table, and he spots something lying on top of it.</p><p>A playing card.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><strong>ESPRIT DE CORPS</strong> [Impossible: Failure] - Lt. Vicquemare must have been ambushed by someone while he was out on his walk— </p><p><strong>LOGIC</strong> [Impossible: Failure] - But then why would they dump him here in Kim's apartment???</p><p><strong>VOLITION</strong> [Legendary: Success] - Amidst the utter confusion and chaos in your mind right now, you choose to focus on the task at hand, namely, untying Jean and getting him the hell out of here.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>With his heart pounding in his chest, Kim slowly walks over to the table and picks up the grinning Joker.</p><p>Then, he flips it over and reads the note scrawled in perfect Seolite on its back:</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Brother dear,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I found this pig snooping around your apartment, so I knocked him out and left him for you as a gift.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Shoot him in the head for me, will you?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>xoxoxoxo</em>
</p><p> </p><p>There's no signature.</p><p>Only a doodle of a smiley face with X's on its eyes.</p><p> </p><p>Kim scans the note again.</p><p>And again.</p><p>And again.</p><p>And with each devastating pass, a blade of ice buries itself deeper and deeper into his heart.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><strong>HAND/EYE COORDINATION</strong> [Legendary: Success] - It takes you a few minutes, but you finally manage to untie Jean's hands. </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - Breathing a quick sigh of relief, you move back to Jean's side and sling one of his arms over your shoulder so that you can lift him out of the chair. </p><p><strong>PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT</strong> [Legendary: Success] - Unfortunately for you, Jean is 197-pounds of pure, lean muscle, but you manage to grit your teeth and successfully heave him up like a pro.</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - "Kim, we need to bring him to a doctor—" </p><p><strong>KIM KITSURAGI</strong> - He says nothing. </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - "...Kim?"</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <em>He lied to us.</em>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><strong>PERCEPTION (SIGHT) </strong>[Challenging: Success] - He seems to be holding something in his hands, something that looks like a...playing card?</p><p><strong>EMPATHY</strong> [Legendary: Failure] - The expression on his face is completely unreadable.</p><p><strong>KIM KITSURAGI</strong> - "What was your partner doing in my apartment, Harry?"</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <em>He's been lying to us all this time.</em>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - "What?"</p><p><strong>KIM KITSURAGI</strong> - "What was he doing here?" </p><p><strong>COMPOSURE</strong> - His voice is calm, quiet, and absolutely chilling.</p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - "I...I don't know—"</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <em>He's lying to us right now.</em>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><strong>KIM KITSURAGI</strong> - He doesn't look at you.</p><p>Instead, he slowly pads over to the wide-open door and stands beside it.</p><p>"Get out, Harry."</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <em>You trusted him.</em>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - You stare at him in disbelief. </p><p>"Kim?"</p><p><strong>KIM KITSURAGI</strong> - "Get out."</p><p><b>HALF-LIGHT</b> [Medium: Success] - He doesn't raise his voice, but somehow, that makes it even more terrifying than if he had shouted at you.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <em>You really, really trusted him.</em>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - I...I don't understand. Why is he— </p><p><strong>EMPATHY</strong> [Godly: Success] - He thinks that you set him up. </p><p><strong>YOU</strong> - ...What?</p><p><strong>EMPATHY</strong> [Godly: Success] - He thinks that you set him up, that you asked him out tonight so that Jean can break into his apartment— </p><p><strong>DRAMA</strong> [Godly: Failure] - That's preposterous!!! You would never resort to such an underhanded ploy! You must try to convince him of your innocence, sire!!!!</p><p><strong>SUGGESTION</strong> [Impossible: Failure] - You can still save this, you can tell him that he has it all wrong, that you would never do this to him, that you have no idea what Jean is doing here. <strong><em>you can still fix this</em></strong>— </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>As Kim stands by the door and waits for Harry to leave, he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><strong>EMPATHY</strong> [Legendary: Success] - No. </p><p>It's too late.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Then, Ace opens his eyes and speaks for the both of them.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><strong>KIM KITSURAGI</strong> - "Get out, you fucking pig."</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>For a long while, none of them speak.</p><p> </p><p>Then, after what seems to be an eternity...</p><p>Harry adjusts his grip on his partner and staggers towards the door.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><b>PAIN THRESHOLD </b>[Godly: Failure] - You've lost him.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>And when Harry finally leaves...</p><p>Kim locks up his heart and throws away the key.</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. A Choice, Made</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Quick note: The next chapter will be an Interlude (Titus POV), and will mark the transition to the final arc of this fic.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Jean doesn’t return to consciousness as much as he crashes back into it.</p>
<p>One moment, he’s drifting in darkness, a speck of dust floating in the sea of oblivion that covers his mind like a soothing blanket. The next moment, he’s bolting up from a bed that he doesn’t remember lying in and heaving his guts out into a metal pan that’s being held under his face while someone rubs his back and murmurs something unintelligible over the harsh sounds of his own retching. The right side of his head is throbbing with agony, and his eye feels like a baseball embedded in his skull. He throws up until there’s nothing left to throw up, then he collapses back to the bed, shuddering and panting like he ran an entire fucking marathon.</p>
<p>While he waits for the world to stop spinning around him, someone props his head up and wipes his mouth with a towel. Then, there's a glass of water being pressed against his lips, and Jean takes several greedy gulps to wash out the acrid taste of vomit that lingers in his mouth. When he's done with it, he cracks open his left eye and tries to make out the muddled haze of yellow, cream, and two glimmering dashes of blue that's peering at him—</p>
<p>“Jean? Jean, can you hear me?”</p>
<p>And even though the voice is muffled by the merciless pounding in his head, Jean recognizes it.</p>
<p>He’ll recognize that voice anywhere.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“...Trant?”</p>
<p>As Jean blinks up blearily at him, Trant Heidelstam heaves a sigh of relief.</p>
<p>“Oh, thank goodness. For a second there, I thought you’d forgotten who I was.”</p>
<p>The first thing that crosses Jean’s mind is that this must all be a dream—a wonderful dream where Trant is right here beside him, cradling his head and looking into his eyes.</p>
<p>But then a fresh wave of agony slams into his skull, and Jean hisses as he curls up and clutches his head. It feels like someone’s drilling a hole into his temple with a fucking butter knife, and it just goes on and on and on—  </p>
<p>“I’ll go and call a doctor,” Trant says quickly, “They can give you some morphine to deal with the pain—”</p>
<p>Jean grabs his wrist before he can walk away.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Don’t go,” he gasps hoarsely. He has no idea where he is or how he got there, and he can’t think straight because his fucking head feels like it’s about to implode, and Trant’s the only thing that’s anchoring him to reality right now and—</p>
<p>Then there’s a warm hand cupping his left cheek, and his panicked thoughts skid to a halt.</p>
<p>He lets Trant pull him forward until their foreheads touch, and he closes his eyes as he tries to ground his frazzled senses on the slow and steady rhythm of Trant’s breathing.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>It’s become something of a ritual for them. Whenever one of them was feeling particularly unhinged (and Jean hates to admit that it’s usually him), they’ll find a quiet place and press their foreheads together just like this. Then, they’ll focus on the sound of each other’s breathing and try to match it, breath by breath, until they were perfectly synchronized. Jean had been skeptical about it at first—he thought it was just another one of those shitty Oriental meditation techniques that Trant loves to blab about like a fucking bee on speed.</p>
<p>But then one day, he’d returned to the precinct after a botched raid of a child prostitution ring, and he found himself slumped against his locker, his body shaking uncontrollably as he tried to forget the sight of small, butchered bodies and the sour, metallic smell of blood that lingered on his hands and on his clothes like second-hand smoke...</p>
<p>Before he knew it, Trant was there too, kneeling in front of him and pressing their foreheads together, telling Jean to stay with him, to listen to him, to focus on his breathing, to just let go—</p>
<p>It took a few minutes, but it worked. The dead children and the smell of blood disappeared, and it was finally just him and Trant, sitting on the floor of the locker room like a pair of children, with their eyes closed and their foreheads pressed together while they breathed as one.</p>
<p>They’ve done it with surprising regularity since then. In fact, Jean’s grown so used to it that whenever he needs to calm the fuck down, all he has to do is to close his eyes and imagine Trant in front of him, guiding his breath with his own, and the chaotic emotions that cloud his mind will evaporate like dew in the face of the sun.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Now, as his breathing slows down and unites itself with Trant’s, Jean feels the pain in his head gradually recede into a dull, throbbing ache. Trant’s forehead is cool against his own, and Jean cracks one eye open to look at his boyfriend’s face. He looks absolutely exhausted—there are dark circles under his closed eyes and faint creases on his right cheek, as if he’d spent the night trying to sleep with his head pillowed on his arm. Up this close, Jean can also see the fine layer of stubble on Trant’s face, which is just as uncharacteristic of him as the rumpled shirt that he’s wearing—</p>
<p>“You’re thinking too loud, Vic. I can hear your thoughts echoing through your skull,” Trant murmurs.</p>
<p>Jean smirks. “Hey, at least my brain’s working again. Still feel like I got hit by a fucking freight train, though.”</p>
<p>Trant draws away from him to peer worriedly at his face. “On a scale of one to ten, how much does it hurt?”</p>
<p>“It was a fucking twenty before we did the breathing exercise, but it’s much better now. Probably just a five.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>A small furrow appears between Trant’s eyebrows, and Jean has the ridiculous urge to kiss it away. “You sure you don’t want me to call a doctor? I’m sure they can give you some analgesics to make it more bearable.”</p>
<p>“Don’t need that,” Jean mutters as he reaches up to clasp Trant’s hand. “Just need you.”</p>
<p>And dammit, his brain must be really fucked up right now for him to be spewing out sappy shit like that.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Trant gives him a brilliant smile. “Well, experts do say that the mere presence of a loved one is able to significantly reduce the amount of physical and psycho-emotional distress perceived by injured individuals—”</p>
<p>“No more fucking trivia, or I’m ditching you for the morphine.”</p>
<p>“Alright, alright, I’ll stop,” Trant says gently. “But I’m relieved that you're able to respond to me coherently. Your attending physician told me that you...uh,” He clears his throat and lowers their joined hands. “That you might have sustained a subdural hematoma, or even a brain contusion, and that if you didn’t wake up in the next 24 hours, they might have to...”</p>
<p>A shadow falls on Trant’s face.</p>
<p>“They might have to operate on you,” he finishes quietly.</p>
<p>And it’s only then that Jean realizes with heartbreaking clarity that Trant might have needed their earlier breathing exercise just as much as he did.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Swallowing the lump that’s suddenly formed in his throat, Jean lowers his eyes. “Sorry for making you worry."</p>
<p>"Worrying about you is practically my full-time job now, Vic," Trant says with a weary smile. "Being a Civilian Volunteer for the RCM is just an elaborate cover-up for my real occupation, which is to accumulate gray hairs while you and Harry chase after violent miscreants...”</p>
<p>“Nah, you’re just getting fucking old, Heidelstam," Jean quips, but he squeezes Trant’s hand as a silent apology nonetheless.</p>
<p>Trant squeezes his hand back. “I don’t mind growing old as long as it's with you,” he says, the laugh lines around his eyes crinkling with mirth.</p>
<p>And if Jean hadn’t just hurled his guts out, he’d have kissed his romantic idiot of a boyfriend for daring to say a stupid line like that.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Do you want more water?” </p>
<p>"No, I’m okay." Jean winces as he scoots back to lean against the wall. "I'd appreciate knowing about what the hell is going on though.”</p>
<p>“Of course,” Trant says, dragging his chair closer to Jean’s bedside. “But first, may I—?”</p>
<p>Before Trant can finish his sentence, Jean’s hand shoots out and grabs his hand, because apparently, one fucking minute is far too long for them to not be in physical contact with each other.</p>
<p>Chuckling, Trant raises Jean’s hand to his lips and presses a kiss to his knuckles. “You read my mind. That blow to your head must have unlocked your dormant powers of telepathy.”</p>
<p>Even as his face starts to burn, Jean huffs and rolls his eyes. “If I did, then I wouldn’t be asking you these questions now, would I?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“But you’ve probably figured out where we are, haven’t you?”</p>
<p>Jean shrugs and picks at the flimsy blue gown that he’s wearing. “You mentioned doctors and morphine, and my ass is hanging out of this fucking gown, so I’m guessing we’re at the hospital.”</p>
<p>“Excellent. It seems that your capacity for deduction hasn’t been impaired by your injury. Oh, and uh,” A faint flush creeps up on Trant’s cheeks. “I can fix your gown later, if you like.”</p>
<p>As a cheeky grin makes its way through Jean’s face, Trant coughs into his fist and quickly changes the topic. “Anyway, we’re at Revachol General Hospital. Harry rushed you here last night at around 9:15 PM, and he called me up to inform me of your...condition.”</p>
<p>There was something in the way that Trant said that last word that made Jean wince. He said it softly, but there was an undercurrent of pain in his voice, as if Trant were reliving the distress that he felt when he received Harry’s phone call...</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Jean squeezes Trant’s hand. “It was that bad, huh?”</p>
<p>Trant’s face darkens. “Harry didn't go into graphic detail, but he did say that you were bleeding and unconscious from a blow to the head. That’s when my imagination and my limited knowledge of neurology stepped in and convinced me that you were concussed, comatose, or worse...” He stays silent for a moment before continuing. “Regardless, I decided to drop off Mikael at my parents’ house and rushed here straightaway.”</p>
<p>The thought of Trant having to tell Mikael about his condition sends a twinge of pain through Jean’s heart. Mikael was a good kid, smart like his father, and just as kindhearted. He and Jean had grown pretty close these past few months, and Jean had promised him that they’d all go on a picnic somewhere in Revachol East after this case...</p>
<p>“How’s the twerp?”</p>
<p>Trant’s eyes soften, and he gives Jean a fond smile. “You’d be proud of him. When I told him that you got hit on the head, he told me that his Uncle Jean’s skull was tougher than steel, and that it’d take more than a hit to the head to kill you.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Jean’s barking laugh immediately turns into a wince when his skull painfully reminds him that it is not, in fact, tougher than steel.</p>
<p>“Ah, fuck...” he mutters. “Well, if they do end up operating on me, they might as well put a steel plate in my head. Wouldn’t want to disappoint the kid.”</p>
<p>“Thankfully, I don’t think you’ll need an operation. Your speech isn’t slurred, and you’ve been responding to me with astounding coherence. You did sustain a nasty scalp laceration though.” Trant points at the right side of Jean’s head. “It took 20 stitches to suture it closed, and they had to shave off some of your hair to get to the wound...”</p>
<p>Jean groans. “So not only am I possibly concussed, I’m also partially bald. This day keeps getting better and better,” he mutters.</p>
<p>“There, there.” Trant pats his hand consolingly. “On the bright side, you finally have the perfect excuse to get that haircut that you’ve been putting off for the past few months.”</p>
<p>Jean huffs. “I haven’t been putting it off. I’ve just been...busy with work. That’s all.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Trant nods. “Of course, of course,” he says, in a tone that implies that he’s just patiently putting up with Jean’s bullshit. “Anyway, Harry and I have been taking turns watching over you since last night. We were both too jittery to get any sleep though, so you’ll have to pardon my unkempt appearance.”  </p>
<p>“Huh. So that’s why you look like shit,” Jean mutters, as he rubs his thumb over Trant’s knuckles.</p>
<p>“Speak for yourself.” Trant smirks. “The right side of your face looks like the unfortunate aftermath of the Graadian Revolution of ’07, complete with the vandalized ‘Monument to a Spherical World.’”</p>
<p>Jean knows he should probably scold Trant for throwing more trivia at him, but he figures that he’s put the man through more than enough suffering already.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Now that we’ve established that we both look like shit, where the hell is Harry?” he asks.</p>
<p>“He stepped out around 15 minutes ago to grab some breakfast for us,” Trant says before his brows furrow with concern. “But I have to say, Vic. Harry’s been...particularly morose ever since last night. Of course, he might just be as worried about you as I am, but I have a strange intuition that there may be something else that’s bothering him...”</p>
<p>Jean freezes as scattered images suddenly flood through his mind—A man clad in blue and red, a staircase, a key, an open door, a notebook, a ring, an elfin face with shining eyes and a vicious grin, a wooden baseball bat hurtling towards his head—</p>
<p>“Jean? Jean, are you alright?” Trant’s worried voice filters through the deafening static that fills Jean’s head, and it’s only then that he realizes that he’s breathing heavily and gripping Trant’s hand like a lifeline.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He eases his grip on Trant’s hand and blinks a few times in a vain attempt to clear his head. "Yeah, I just...I just remembered a few things from yesterday,” he says hoarsely. “Did Harry mention anything about how he found me?”</p>
<p>Trant blinks at him. “How he found you? So you weren’t with him when you were attacked?”</p>
<p>Jean winces. Something tells him that Harry’s despondency has everything to do with the little stunt that he pulled off yesterday, and he’s absolutely <em>not</em> looking forward to the Talk that they’d inevitably have about it...</p>
<p> </p>
<p>His anxious thoughts are interrupted by three knocks on the door.</p>
<p>“That must be Harry.” Trant lets go of his hand to stand up, and Jean stifles the urge to yank his boyfriend back so that he could use Trant as a human security blanket for when Harry comes in—</p>
<p> </p>
<p>—which happens a few seconds later, when Trant opens the door to reveal Harry standing there holding a paper bag and a cardboard cupholder with two covered styrofoam cups in it.</p>
<p>“Sorry, Trant,” Harry says, still oblivious to Jean’s terrified stare. “They only had egg muffins at the cafeteria, but I managed to get us some coffee...”</p>
<p>Trant beams at him. “Thank you, Harry. Let me get those from you... Oh, Jean’s awake, by the way.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Harry freezes.</p>
<p>Jean freezes.</p>
<p>Then, Harry whips his head around to look at Jean.</p>
<p>Jean smiles weakly at him. “Morning, shitkid.”</p>
<p>Harry’s eyes widen, and it’s a good thing that Trant took the food and coffee from him, because he rushes towards Jean’s bedside with astonishing speed.</p>
<p>“Jean!” Harry gasps as he crouches by Jean’s bed to peer up at him. “Oh, thank Dolores, you’re awake...”</p>
<p>Jean almost winces at the sight of Harry’s face. His partner looks just as exhausted as Trant, if not more so—Heavy bags sag under his bloodshot eyes, and his skin looks pale and drawn. In fact, if Jean had to guess, it looks as if Harry had been...crying. A lot.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The anxiety that’s been simmering in Jean’s gut morphs into full-blown dread, but he does his best to mask it with a wry grin.</p>
<p>“Good thing I woke up while you were away, or I would’ve passed out again at the sight of your ugly mug.” </p>
<p>To his relief, Harry chuckles at his quip. “See, that’s why I asked Trant to come over. Figured you just needed a true love’s kiss to wake up.”</p>
<p>Trant, who’s moved to stand beside Harry, visibly perks up at that suggestion. “We seem to have skipped that part of the procedure, Jean. Would you mind entering a catatonic state again so that we can do it right?”</p>
<p>Jean’s face blazes with heat, and he does his best to glare at the two bastards in front of him using his one good eye. “I hate you both,” he growls half-heartedly.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>They spend the next few minutes eating breakfast—well, at least Trant and Harry do. Jean isn’t feeling very confident about his ability to keep anything down right now, so he just watches the two of them eat their egg muffins and drink their coffee. But as he does so, he silently prays to whatever deity that might be listening that Harry would cut him some slack and not bring up anything related to the case right now...</p>
<p>Specifically, that Harry wouldn’t bring up anything about what the hell he was doing in Kim Kitsuragi’s apartment.</p>
<p>Unfortunately for him, the gods turn out to be sadistic bastards who revel in his suffering, because the moment Harry finishes eating his breakfast, he sits on the chair that Trant occupied earlier and starts glancing at Jean furtively.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Hey, Trant,” Harry eventually says. “Would you mind giving Jean and I some time together? I uh, just want to debrief him about the case.”</p>
<p>Trant blinks at Harry and shoots a worried look at Jean, who’s doing his best not to grimace in fear.  </p>
<p>“Are you sure this would be a good time to do that?” Trant asks Harry. “He just regained consciousness, so a debriefing may be too taxing for him right now—”  </p>
<p>At that moment, Jean decides that the sooner he and Harry get to talk, the sooner he can pass out again.</p>
<p>“It’s okay, Trant. I can handle it,” Jean says with a nonchalance that he absolutely does not feel. "I’m itching to make sense of what happened back there too.”</p>
<p>From the corner of his eye, he sees Harry look at him with mild surprise, as if he couldn’t believe that Jean was actually willing to talk to him.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“And besides,” Jean hears himself say, out of pity for his poor, distraught partner, “I think I have enough strength in me to punch the shitkid in the face if he starts to tire me out.”</p>
<p>The expression on Harry’s face softens with gratitude, but Jean keeps his eyes fixed on Trant, who still doesn’t look very convinced about this whole thing.</p>
<p>“I don’t know, Jean...” Trant says with a frown. “I’ve already talked your ear off, and you really should be resting—”</p>
<p>“We won’t take too long,” Harry blurts out. “I promise.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>In the face of this double assault, Trant sighs and finally gives in. “Alright. I’ll give you both twenty minutes, then I’m marching back in here to tuck Vic into bed.”</p>
<p>Harry grins at him. “Thanks, Trant. I’ll make sure to get him nice and tired so he goes straight to sleep afterwards.”</p>
<p>Jean rolls his eyes. “First of all, I’m not a fucking ten-year-old who needs to be tucked in bed. Second, I’m serious about punching you in the face if you tire me out, shitkid, so you’d better make good use of our time.”</p>
<p>Trant shakes his head and smiles at them both. “Alright, I’m heading out. Don’t strangle each other while I’m away.”</p>
<p>“Can’t promise anything, but I’ll try,” Jean quips, even though what he really wants to say is, “Please stay.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>But since he doesn’t say that, Trant steps out of the room and leaves him alone with Harry.</p>
<p>As the door closes behind his boyfriend, Jean sighs and sags against the pillows behind him. His headache’s returned with a vengeance, and a bone-aching exhaustion sweeps over his body. At this rate, he’s not even sure if he can last a full 20 minutes with Harry before he conks out again...</p>
<p>Harry clears his throat. “So, uh... How are you feeling—”</p>
<p>Jean raises a hand to cut him off. “Before you start, shitkid, I want to inform you that I was just putting up a brave front for Trant’s sake. The truth is, I’m ready to pass out again any minute now, so you might want to cut the crap and ask me your goddamn questions while I can still string words together to form sentences.”</p>
<p>And with that, he lowers his hand and waits for his partner to man up.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>It takes Harry a few seconds to muster up some courage, but he doesn’t disappoint.</p>
<p>“We, uh...we found you in Kim’s apartment, Jean,” he says quietly.</p>
<p>“By ‘we’, I’m guessing you mean you and Kim.”</p>
<p>Harry flinches at Kim’s name, and even if Jean’s head feels like it’s filled with bloody cotton right now, he’s still able to put two and two together.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I’m guessing Kim wasn’t very happy to see me there,” he murmurs.</p>
<p>Harry huffs a small, miserable laugh. “No. He...he really wasn’t.”</p>
<p>Jean patiently waits for Harry to continue.</p>
<p>“What happened, Jean? Who did this to you? What were you doing in Kim’s apartment—”</p>
<p>“Woah, there. When I told you to ask me your questions, I meant one at a time,” Jean says wearily.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Sorry,” Harry mutters with a wince. “It’s just...” He sighs. “I can’t for the life of me figure out how you ended up there, with your head cracked open in the middle of...his living room.</p>
<p>It doesn’t escape Jean’s notice that Harry didn’t—no, <em>couldn’t</em>—say Kim’s name, as if saying it would be too excruciating for him to bear.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I messed up, shitkid.”</p>
<p>Harry whips his head up to look at him. “What?”</p>
<p>Jean sighs. “I messed up. I should’ve told you about it, but I didn’t.”</p>
<p>The look on Harry’s face is one of confusion and growing horror. “You should have told me about what, Jean?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>So Jean tells him. About the note from E.C., about going to the docks and meeting that boiadero, about the key that he received and the door that it opened...</p>
<p>But before he can tell Harry about what he saw in Kim’s apartment, Harry interrupts him by asking the question that Jean’s been asking himself ever since he woke up.</p>
<p>“Jean,” he says in a broken voice. “Why didn’t you tell me?” </p>
<p>At the back of his addled mind, Jean knows that he had a perfectly good reason for not telling Harry about the note—a reason that was so good and made so much sense that it prompted him to go ahead and break into Kim’s apartment.</p>
<p>But right now, when he thinks about that reason again, it just sounds fucking stupid.</p>
<p>“Because I thought it could be a trap,” he says. “And if it was, then I didn’t want to drag you into it.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Harry gapes at him.</p>
<p>“You didn’t tell me...because you thought it could be a trap?” he repeats incredulously.</p>
<p>Jean nods. “Yeah.”</p>
<p>In the heavy silence that ensues between them, Jean wonders if this is the point where Harry will finally get mad at him. It’s never happened before—they’ve had their arguments, yes, but even in the worst of those, Harry had never really gotten angry at him. At least, not in the way that Jean would have gotten angry, which would involve shouting, cussing, punching, kicking, and eventually storming out of the room.   </p>
<p>He’s surprised to realize that he actually wouldn’t mind if Harry did all of those to him. Dolores knows that Jean deserves it, and there are few emotions that Jean feels more comfortable with than raging anger...</p>
<p> </p>
<p>But instead of getting angry at Jean, Harry just looks...defeated.</p>
<p>Hurt.</p>
<p>Betrayed.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>And at that moment, Jean wishes—with all his heart—that Harry had gotten angry at him instead.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“You should have told me, Jean,” Harry says quietly, his eyes wide and distraught. “I would’ve—”</p>
<p>“You would’ve what? Ditched your date with Kim to go with me to the docks?”</p>
<p>Harry looks like Jean just slapped him in the face, and Jean absolutely hates his own big fat fucking mouth right now.    </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I...I’m sorry, Harry,” he mutters. “I shouldn’t have said that.”</p>
<p>Harry continues to stare at him with such anguish that Jean can’t bear to look at him.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Then, after a few moments, Harry hunches over and rests his elbows on his knees.</p>
<p>“He trusted me.”</p>
<p>Jean blinks. “What?”</p>
<p>“He trusted me,” Harry repeats in a low, mournful voice, without looking at him. “He let me ask him about the case. He answered my questions honestly. He—”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Then Harry’s shoulders start to tremble, and Jean knows without having to look at his face that he’s crying again.</p>
<p>Jean opens his mouth to say something—an apology, maybe. Or some words of comfort.</p>
<p>But his throat seizes up, and the words never come.</p>
<p>So instead, he just shuts up and watches his partner silently fall apart in front of him.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>After what feels like an eternity, Harry finally manages to regain some semblance of composure. His cheeks are streaked with tears, his nose is all runny, and he still refuses to look at Jean in the eye, but he manages to look up and gaze at Jean’s bedcovers with a hollow expression on his face.</p>
<p>“...I have to go back, Jean.”</p>
<p>Jean stares at him incredulously.</p>
<p>“I have to go back,” Harry says. “I need to solve this case. I need—” He chokes off for a moment, but he manages to continue after a shuddering breath. “I need to save him.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>That snaps Jean out of his trance.</p>
<p>“Harry. Harry, listen to me—”</p>
<p>But Harry’s already standing up and wiping his face on his coat sleeve.</p>
<p>“You should rest now. I’ll ask Trant to come in—”</p>
<p>“Fucking listen to me, shitkid!!!” Jean yells, even as white-hot hammers start to pound into his skull. “You can’t go back there alone! You’re going to get yourself <em>killed</em>—”     </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Suddenly, Harry meets his gaze again, and Jean is stunned by the stubborn resignation that he sees in his partner’s bloodshot eyes.</p>
<p>“I know,” Harry says quietly. “But I have to see this through.”</p>
<p>Then, he’s walking towards the door, and Jean tries to heave his body out of the bed so that he can stop his partner from embarking on this fucking <em>suicide mission</em>—</p>
<p>But then the room starts to careen wildly around him, and Jean barely manages to stop himself from passing out again. As he blinks away the dark spots that are dancing at the edge of his vision, he sees Harry look back at him with a rueful smile on his careworn face.</p>
<p>“Take care of yourself, Jean.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Jean frowns at him. “Harry?”</p>
<p>But Harry’s already gone.</p>
<p>As the door to his room swings shut, Jean tries to summon every last bit of his strength and pushes himself out of his bed with a ragged cry of pain. Staggering towards the door, he manages to take exactly five steps before his legs give out beneath him, and the only reason why he doesn’t crack his skull on the floor is because Trant manages to catch him just in time.</p>
<p>“Jean, what are you doing??? You shouldn’t be moving around like this—”</p>
<p>“Trant,” Jean gasps, as he clutches onto his boyfriend’s shoulders. “We need to stop him. He’s going to do something stupid and get himself fucking killed—”</p>
<p>“Alright, Jean. Just...just calm down—”      </p>
<p> </p>

<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    
  </p>
</div><p>But Jean can’t possibly calm the fuck down, because he knows that something terrible is about to happen in Martinaise, and that Harry’s marching to his death, and that if he doesn’t stop his partner right now then Harry’s death will be his fault just like how everything else has been his fault because he’s a goddamn impulsive motherfucker who can’t do <em>anything </em>right—</p>
<p>So he shouts after Harry until his voice breaks, and he strains and struggles against Trant until his strength gives way and there’s nothing left but the pounding, blinding pain in his head and the dark spots that swim in front of his eyes—</p>
<p>And when Trant gently presses their foreheads together, a ragged sob bursts from Jean’s chest, and he finally lets himself fall apart.   </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. Interlude Two: The Knight</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Titus Hardie’s never been on a train before.</p><p>Not a real one at least. When he and Tibbs had just been little kids, his family had visited a country fair in the outskirts of Martinaise, and there’d been a kiddie choo-choo train that chugged around the whole fairground pulling four carriages of noisy twerps just like them. To his four-year-old mind, that train was the best thing in the world—A bright-red steam engine that let out a shrill whistle whenever the driver (a bored-looking teenager wearing a conductor’s cap) pulled the chain hanging over his head. They ended up going on it three times before their old man got impatient and hauled them off to the picnic table where they regaled their mother with tales of their death-defying adventure. </p><p>He’s never ridden one as a grown man, though. Revachol’s never had a proper railway system, and anyone who tried to set one up would throw in the towel after the first few hundred times that the communards blew up their tracks. But it would be nice to have one—God knows he’s wasted enough of his life sitting in the hour-long traffic jams that clog Jamrock’s arteries, and the working class needs a faster way of going around the city than by bicycle, horse, or their own two feet.</p><p> </p><p>Given all this, Titus would be surprised to know that he’s actually on a train right now. Not a kiddie one – not even a physical one. But a... cosmic one. A train whose carriages contained entire cities, whose passengers included the population of the entire world, whose tracks are not made from wood or steel, but from thousands, millions, if not billions of human choices that have set this little parcel of the universe on its current course.</p><p>It's the same train that Kim has been on for most of his life, ever since he was picked up from the orphanage by the tall, gaunt man whom he will eventually call "Father.” The same train that Detectives Harrier du Bois and Jean Vicquemare will board thirty-two years later, their tickets stamped by the signet rings on the bloated fingers of two dead lovers. The same train that’ll deposit them all onto a ruined waterfront in the aftermath of a gunfight that’ll leave one of them lying in a pool of his own blood...</p><p>But Titus doesn’t know any of that.</p><p>Right now, all he knows is that he just agreed to be Ace’s foreman. And in a few minutes, he’s going to have to find a way to tell his men about this without making them feel like he’s ditching them to work for a gangster.</p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t get much time to think about it, because as soon as he enters the docks, the Hardie Boys flock around him like a herd of headless chickens.</p><p>“You okay, T?!”</p><p>“What did he wanna talk to you about?”</p><p>“Did he challenge you to a fight??”</p><p>“Woah there, boys,” Titus holds up his hands to stop the barrage of questions. “Don’t worry, I’m fine. Ace just wanted to talk shop. And no, he didn’t ask for a fight,” he says, to everyone’s disappointment. “Offered me a job, actually.”</p><p>Glen flinches. “What the hell?! But you already got a job! Right here, with us!”</p><p>“He asked you to off someone for him, didn’t he?” Alain asks. “That’s typical mafia shit, hiring someone to do your dirty work for you.”</p><p> </p><p>Titus sighs. He loves these guys like brothers, but they tend to jump to the worst conclusions. Some of them—he glances at Glen—prefer to shoot first and ask questions later too, so he’ll have to ease their fingers off the trigger.</p><p>“No, Al. He didn’t ask me to kill anyone.” Once again, this is received by general disappointment. “Ace asked me to be his foreman for a construction project. Said his family wants to build a pinball arcade in the Doomed Commercial Area—”</p><p>“He wants to build something in <em>that</em> fucking place?!” Shanks yelps. “But it’s cursed!!!”</p><p>“Sounds like someone didn’t do his research then.” Eugene crosses his arms and looks inquisitively at Titus. “You told him no, right?”</p><p> </p><p>When Titus doesn't answer right away, all of their faces start morphing into various expressions of disbelief.</p><p>“No way,” Glen whispers. “T, don’t tell me you—”</p><p>“Yeah, I took the job,” Titus admits, “And before you ask, Glenny: No, he didn’t point a fucking gun to my head while we were talking.”</p><p>The blonde huffs and crosses his arms. “Wasn’t gonna ask that,” he mutters, convincing absolutely no one.</p><p>“But why, boss??? We got plenty o’ work here already!” Shanks gestures to the docks behind them, which frankly don’t seem so busy right now.</p><p>Then Alain speaks up and makes a very good point. “Yeah! And how the hell are we supposed to be the Hardie Boys if Titus Hardie ain’t around to lead us??”</p><p> </p><p>“Pipe down, boys.”</p><p>They all look at Theo. </p><p>“Let the man explain himself,” he says, giving Titus a look that tells him that he better start explaining himself <em>right now</em>. </p><p>Taking his mentor’s cue, Titus clears his throat and prepares to bullshit his way through this interrogation.</p><p> </p><p>“Look, I understand why you’re all worried,” he says. “But think about it: We got a bonafide gangster who wants to set up shop here in our backyard. Someone who beat the Claires at their own game and took out Measurehead in a fair fight. Someone who owns a small army of goons who can kick our asses before we can even whip out our guns.”</p><p>“But—” Alain starts.</p><p>“Don’t get me wrong, I’m not afraid of ‘em,” Titus says, lying through his teeth. “If Ace challenged me to a fight, I’d take him on. But we ain’t up against just one man. We’re up against a whole goddamn crime family, and they’ll probably raze Martinaise to the ground if we get in their way.”</p><p>Defiance gives way to fear. Shanks gulps. Alain turns pale. Fat Angus whimpers.</p><p> </p><p>Bolstered by the effect that his words are having on his men, Titus presses on. “So I figured, if I ride along and get on Ace’s team, then we have a fighting chance. I’ll get to keep an eye on him, make sure he doesn’t do anything fishy. I can get the right people hired in the right positions, suggest a few local suppliers—” He knows they’re all thinking about Tibbs and his window-installing business. “—stimulate the local economy, and all that shit. But most of all, I can make sure that Martinaise gets its fair share from this damn arcade, and not just let a fucking mobster bleed our neighborhood dry.”</p><p>The Hardie Boys stare at him in awe. </p><p>“Oh, and I’ll get to make a quick buck while doing all of that too,” Titus adds with a wink.</p><p> </p><p>“Fucking brilliant, T!!!” Glen punches Titus on the shoulder, grinning like a maniac. “Should’ve known you were up to something!”</p><p>“You’re like one of those spies from the movies,” Alain says, suddenly turning into a giddy little kid. “You know, the ones where the good guy pretends to be one of the bad guys, and then when the bad guys mess up, <em>boom</em>!” He fires an imaginary gun at his own temple. “He blows all their brains out!”</p><p>“Wait a second, I ain’t blowing out anyone’s—”</p><p>“’Titus Hardie: Man of Mystery.’” Eugene says, adding fuel to the fire. “Has a nice ring to it. Want me to write up a theme song for you, boss? It’ll be real catchy, I promise.”</p><p>“A-and I can make you some gadgets too!” Fat Angus chimes in. “Got some old walkie-talkies that you can use to call us if you need back-up!”</p><p>“Walkie-talkies are fucking stupid, Angie!” Shanks cackles. “What the boss needs is one of those little mics that you can pin on your jacket so it ain’t too obvious—”</p><p>“Alright boys, enough with the spy-talk,” Titus says before they get too carried away. “But now do you understand why I took the job?”</p><p> </p><p>Everyone nods, and Titus breathes a quiet sigh of relief. He kind of feels bad for telling them something that he just pulled out of his ass, but he knows for a fact that they wouldn’t have taken the truth so well—namely, that he took the job because he thinks Ace is a pretty decent guy. And because he looked kinda lonely...</p><p> </p><p>“Sorry, boss,” Alain mutters. “Shouldn’t have doubted your judgment like that.” The others follow his lead and murmur similar apologies.</p><p>“It’s fine, Al.” Titus claps his right-hand man on the shoulder. “I’m gonna have to leave the Hardies to you while I’m busy playing foreman. Think you can handle that?”</p><p>“You can count on me, T! What d’ya say, guys?” Alain says, looking at the rest of the crew. “You ready to become the Alain boys for the next few months?”</p><p>Eugene smirks. “No offense meant, Al, but ‘The Alain Boys’ sounds like shit."</p><p>“Yeah! Can’t we just be the Theo Boys again?” Glen points at Theo, who wearily waves him off.</p><p>“Too old to be handling you young’ uns. Don’t have a problem being an Angie Boy, though,” Theo says, passing the ball to poor Fat Angus.</p><p>“A-A-Angie Boys?” the big man gasps. Then, his face lights up. “Hey. I kinda like the sound of that.”</p><p>Narrowing his eyes, Alain cracks his knuckles and glares at his new rival. “Only one way to find out who gets to be the leader. Burger-eating contest. Whirling, 7 PM. Unless you’re fuckin’ <em>chicken.</em>”</p><p>“Chicken? I like chicken,” Fat Angus says happily.</p><p> </p><p>Turns out neither Alain nor Angus get to play leader, since all of them end up getting recruited into Ace’s crew that very same week, thanks to their skills: Glen and Alain are welders, Theo’s a badass carpenter, Fat Angus can carry loads as heavy as himself, Shanks knows his way around wires, and Eugene—Well, Eugene’s never lifted a hammer in his life, but he’s a quick learner.</p><p>It’s not just them who gets recruited either. Ace’s first task for Titus is to look for ten more skilled workers from Martinaise who could join them, so Titus puts on his recruiter hat and starts asking around. He doesn’t have any trouble finding candidates—Word’s gone out that some gangster was willing to throw money at folks to renovate the Doomed Commercial Area, and before long, Titus finds himself buried neck-deep in a pile of applications.</p><p>He whittles it down to a manageable stack by throwing out those that sound like they were written by kindergarteners. Then, he picks out the ones who have the handiest skills, the most work experience, and last but not the least, the greatest need for cash. Sure, it’d be nice to have another plumber on board, but if Titus has to choose between that guy and the brickmason with six mouths to feed at home, he’ll pick the second guy in a heartbeat.</p><p> </p><p>His next task is a bit harder: Convince Plaisance to move out of her bookstore, and Giulia to move out of the fucking chimney. To save time, Titus sends Eugene and Fat Angus—who’re the least threatening among the Hardies—to talk to the dicemaker while he talks to Plaisance. They manage to convince Giulia easily enough—she already knows a place where she can move to, though she will miss the view of the Whirling’s backyard. She even gives them a free set of custom dice each as moving-out souvenirs, which makes Eugene and Angie the happiest guys in the world.</p><p>Plaisance is a bit more...difficult. Titus thought she’d jump at the chance to finally move out of the building that cursed her business and turned her into a paranoid cuckoo, but boy, was he wrong. The woman refuses to budge, even when Titus channels his inner weirdo and tells her that the universe is giving her a second chance to fix her mojo-energy-crystal-powers.</p><p>But he might as well have been talking to a granite wall with glasses, because Plaisance pretty much tells him to go fuck himself.</p><p>“You can tear down the rest of the building, Mr. Hardie, but ‘Crimes, Romances, and Biographies of Famous People’ is here to stay!” she exclaims, her eyes glinting with fury. “And if you even dare to touch a single plank in my bookstore, then by <em>Dolores</em>, I’ll put up a Vredeian Bone Totem and offer a sacrifice of rooster blood so that every single person involved in this---this---<em>travesty</em> will die of syphilis!”</p><p>Titus takes this all in with utter seriousness.</p><p>“Even the virgins?” he asks out of morbid curiosity.</p><p>Plaisance’s glare pierces right through him.</p><p>“Yes,” she hisses. “Even the virgins.”</p><p>Now, Titus has no idea what the hell a Vredeian Bone Totem is, or whether Plaisance would really murder an innocent rooster for a crazy ritual. But what he does know is that there’s no way he and his men are gonna die from a literal fucking disease like syphilis. And so, left with no choice, he calls in the cavalry.</p><p> </p><p>Two days later, Plaisance storms into the Whirling, turns her nose up at Titus, and marches into the Union box for her meeting with Ace. Ignoring her bitchiness, Titus goes to the kitchen and asks ol’ Kubek to whip up some lunch for them, since their talk’s probably going to take a while.</p><p>So you can imagine his surprise when, just an hour later, Plaisance staggers out of the Union Box with the dazed expression on her face. She looked like someone who expected to battle with a sleazy miscreant, only to come face-to-face with a pleasant, bespectacled man who offered her coffee, patiently listened to her concerns, and took out his checkbook once she was done.</p><p>“Well, that was fast,” he says, sitting across from Ace and passing him a plate of roast beef from the kitchen. “Thought she’d try to hex you or something.”</p><p>“She did.” Ace nods at him gratefully and starts slicing up the meat into perfect little cubes. “But she calmed down after I gave her the check. Oh, and I offered her a job too.”</p><p> </p><p>Titus chokes on his own spit.</p><p>“You what?!”</p><p>Ace slides a napkin towards him. “The arcade needs a bookkeeper. I asked her to get back to me within the week, but I have a feeling that we’ll hear back from her by tomorrow.”</p><p>Titus frowns and decides to point out the obvious.</p><p>“But she’s a book<em>seller</em>, not a book<em>keeper</em>.”</p><p>Ace dismisses this with a wave of his hand. “Semantics. She knows how to run a business, so she should know the basics of accounting.”</p><p>Titus wants to point out that you need to know more than the basics of accounting to handle the books of a pinball-arcade-slash-gambling-den, but then he realizes that you need to know more than the basics of construction to be a foreman for a major renovation project too, which shuts him up pretty fast.</p><p> </p><p>“She tell you about her little girl?” he asks instead.</p><p>“Yes, she did. But I didn’t hire her out of pity, Titus,” Ace says mildly.</p><p>Bullshit, Titus thinks. Ace could’ve hired a better accountant than Plaisance—hell, he could’ve hired a better foreman than Titus. So why didn’t he?</p><p>Titus has a good hunch about the answer—namely, that despite all appearances, Ace is a much nicer guy than he makes himself out to be. But since it wouldn’t look so good if he got fired after only three weeks on the job, Titus just keeps quiet and watch the mobster clean up his plate with quiet efficiency.</p><p> </p><p>He meets the rest of Ace’s construction team that afternoon, and they’re all just as competent and intimidating as their boss. The architect, Elizabeth “Liz” Beaufort, is a no-nonsense young woman who’s two heads shorter than Titus, but who can make all of his men cower in their boots with that glare of hers. Then there’s the contractor, Mick Sullivan, a swarthy redhead with a scar on his left cheek and biceps the size of concrete pillars. Just like his father, Titus is a firm believer of the saying that you can tell a man’s character from his handshake, so when Mick reaches over and impresses Titus with the strength of his character, Titus makes sure to respond in kind.</p><p>Mick’s gray eyes light up with admiration.</p><p>“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Hardie,” he rumbles.</p><p>Ignoring the crushing pain that’s shooting up his arm, Titus sets his face in stone and replies, “Likewise, Mr. Sullivan.”</p><p>They glower at each other for a few more seconds before letting go.</p><p>And if Ace and Liz notice them both shaking out their hands behind their backs, the two of them graciously don’t comment on it.</p><p> </p><p>Mick brings in seventeen of his own men to join the crew—tough, capable motherfuckers who’ve been doing construction work for just as long as Titus and his boys have been working in the Union. At first, Titus worries about whether they’ll get along with team Martinaise, but all it takes is a night at the Whirling to break the ice between the two groups. The free-flowing beer definitely helps smooth things out, but so does Eugene’s singing, which sparks an epic karaoke battle that results in a surprise victory for none other than Mr. Mick Sullivan (who turns out to be a goddamned crooner, if you can believe it).</p><p>It’s a good thing they hold the party on a Friday night, because by the time Monday rolls in, everyone’s recovered from their hangovers and eager to get down to work.</p><p> </p><p>Their first order of business is to haul out all the junk from the Doomed Commercial Area. Ace agrees to let the men keep any interesting stuff that they find, so Alain’s now the proud owner of a rusty set of barbells while Fat Angus has not just one, but two radiocomputers to tinker with. No one knows who took those Guillame de Million posters from the hair salon though. Those just up and vanished after a shift that Glen happened to be on...</p><p>A case for Dick Mullen, they all agree.</p><p> </p><p>Then there’s that damned ice bear. It’s working just fine, but no one wants to take it home—probably because none of them want to walk into their kitchen for a midnight snack and get a fucking heart attack from their refrigerator. So they leave it in the basement, where it can’t terrify anyone.</p><p>Then one day, Ace comes over, takes a look at the damn thing, and decides to put it in the arcade.</p><p>“It’d be a waste to throw it away,” Ace says, peering up at the refrigerator’s glowing red eyes. “It has excellent shock value.”</p><p>“I dunno, Boss.” Titus scratches his chin. “This thing’s shock value might scare away all our customers.”</p><p>“It’s not that scary,” says the man who took on a seven-foot-tall Semenese brawler and knocked him out in two moves. “We can use it to store lots of ice cream. Maybe even a dead body or two.”</p><p>They silently stare at the ice bear for a few seconds.</p><p>“I was kidding about the dead bodies,” Ace says.</p><p>“I know,” Titus lies.</p><p> </p><p>Over the next two weeks, Titus and his crew systematically tear apart the Doomed Commercial Area like a pack of wolves ripping into a bear’s carcass. They smash the walls with sledgehammers. They pry up the floors with crowbars. They shatter the windows, kick down the doors, and rip off the wallpaper. It’s backbreaking work, and Titus swears that his lungs will be caked with dust till the day he dies, but damn, it feels great to take down this place. It feels like justice. Retribution.</p><p>Revenge.</p><p>Revenge for all the misery that it caused to the good folks who tried to make an honest living here. Revenge for dashing their hopes and dreams. Revenge for being a fucking stain on the scarred map of Martinaise.</p><p> </p><p>But still, there's a part of him that wonders whether this little project of theirs will end up getting jinxed by the curse too. Sure, they’re kicking up a lot of dust and making a lot of noise, but who’s to say that Ace’s arcade won’t go bust just like those other businesses? What if all of their hard work’s just going to get flushed down the drain, and this whole thing turns out to be a mobster’s pipe dream?</p><p>Titus doesn’t know the answer to these questions–hell, he’s not sure if he even <em>wants</em> to know the answer to them.</p><p>But what he does know is that despite everything that he told the Hardie Boys about keeping an eye on Ace, Titus doesn’t want the mobster to fail. He wants to get this arcade up and running, with all its flashing lights and fancy machines. He wants to see the ice bear scaring the shit out of people. He wants to see kids marching in here in droves and use up all their dimes trying to beat each other’s high scores.</p><p>He wants Ace to succeed, because if he does—</p><p>Then maybe, just maybe, there’s still hope for this godforsaken place that Titus calls his hometown.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>A few months pass. The seasons change—cool spring days give way to muggy summer afternoons. Sweat drenches the men’s shirts and streams down their faces. Some of them start jumping into the ocean after work to cool off, while the rest rush off to the Whirling and beg Sylvie for some ice-cold beers. The heat doesn’t stop them, though—if anything, it just makes them work even faster, since they’d rather work in the sweltering heat of summer than freeze their asses off during the dead of winter.</p><p> </p><p>On a Friday afternoon in the middle of July, Titus is reviewing the arcade’s blueprint with Liz outside the building-formerly-known-as-the-Doomed Commercial Area when suddenly—</p><p>“Hey, Titus!!!”</p><p>Titus looks up and sees Alain waving at him from the second-floor scaffolding.</p><p>“’Scuse me,” he mutters to Liz before shouting back. “What’s up, Al?”</p><p>“It’s five fucking o’ clock already!” the tattooed Mesque hollers. “You’re gonna be late for your date!!!”</p><p> </p><p>Startled, Titus glances at his watch and jumps when he sees the time. “Holy fucking shit,” he hisses. “Hey, Liz, mind if we—”</p><p>The architect gives him a wry smile. “Of course, Mr. Hardie. We can continue this on Monday. Wouldn’t want to keep your ‘date’ waiting, after all.”</p><p>Titus rolls his eyes. “It’s not a date, and you know it.” But he thanks her anyway and starts running.</p><p> </p><p>From their perch on the second-floor scaffolding, Alan and Eugene watch their boss dash towards the Whirling-in-Rags.</p><p>“T’s going on a date?” Eugene asks, puzzled. “Who’s the broad?”</p><p>Alain grins. “He is.”</p><p> </p><p><em>Shit shit shit shit shit</em>—</p><p>Titus barrels through the doors of the Whirling and runs to the bar. “Sylvie! Keys!”</p><p>“Here, catch!” The bartender tosses a set of keys to him, smiling. “Try to put up a fight this time, okay?”</p><p>Titus catches them with one hand and shoots her a wink. “Aw, come on, Sylv! I always do!”</p><p>Then, he runs up the stairs, unlocks Room 3, and slips inside.</p><p> </p><p>He stops by the bathroom first, as always. After taking off his hard hat and his construction jacket, he quickly rinses off the grime from his face and arms. No time for a shower—He’s already five minutes late, and besides, he’s going to get all sweaty again anyway...</p><p>Still, he gives himself a quick little sniff, just to be sure.</p><p>Then, once he’s satisfied that he doesn’t look or smell like shit, Titus dusts off his clothes and heads up to the bedroom.</p><p> </p><p>The two of them have been meeting up like this for the past two months, and they’ve made no secret of it. By now, all the guys know that they can’t invite Titus out for drinks on Fridays, and they know exactly what goes on in Room 3 too, thanks to the new bruises that he sports every Monday. His partner gets off lightly compared to him, except for that one time when Titus got too frisky and accidentally split their lip.</p><p>Lucky for him, they didn’t get too upset when that happened.</p><p>In fact, they even seemed to like it.</p><p> </p><p>The bedroom’s awash with golden sunlight when Titus arrives, and the only signs that someone else is there are the ice bucket with two beers perched on the table at the foot of the bed, and the orange bomber jacket draped over the back of the lounge seat by the window...</p><p>But instead of heading out and joining the jacket’s owner at the balcony, he hangs back for a bit to appreciate the view.</p><p> </p><p>Outside, the sky’s on fire—a furious inferno of reds and oranges, with thin tongues of purple flickering along its edges. There’s a flock of seagulls wheeling above the waterfront, and Titus spots two albatrosses—their wings twice as long as their bodies—gliding off into the horizon.</p><p>But pretty as it may be, he’s not paying much attention to the scenery. Nope—His eyes are locked onto the slim figure standing by the railing, looking out at Martinaise like an emperor studying his kingdom...</p><p> </p><p><em>Guess that would make me his knight, huh?</em> Titus thinks to himself. <em>Sir Titus Hardie</em>...</p><p>Not bad, he thinks with a smirk. Not bad at all.</p><p>Amused by his little thought experiment, Titus finally heads out to join his boss.</p><p> </p><p>“Sorry I’m late, Ace. Lost track of time at work.”</p><p>The mobster turns around, and as usual, Titus can’t tell whether or not he’s upset.</p><p>“It’s fine, Titus. I could see you working from here,” he says, jerking his chin towards the site, “so you’re off the hook.”</p><p><em>For now</em>, he most definitely doesn’t say.</p><p>Titus hears that message loud and clear, though. “Thanks.” A trail of cold sweat trickles down his nape. “Won’t happen again, I promise.”</p><p> </p><p>Ace nods, effectively pardoning Titus for making him wait for five fucking minutes. Meanwhile, Titus marvels at how his boss still manages to be an intimidating son-of-a-bitch even when he’s dressed down. Instead of his usual mortician’s outfit, Ace is wearing a plain undershirt, cargo pants, solid workboots, and a pair of brown leather gloves. It makes him look like an off-duty mechanic instead of a mob boss, but you don’t turn a tiger into a house cat just by putting a collar on it now, do you?</p><p> </p><p>“Are you ready to start?” Ace asks, cracking his neck and rolling his shoulders. </p><p>“Sure. Just gimme a sec to warm up.” </p><p>His boss glances at his watch. “Don’t take too long, or your beers will get warm.”</p><p>That gets Titus moving. </p><p> </p><p>Despite all the shit that he gets from his crew, these “Fri-dates” (as Alain loves to call them) are actually just Titus’ weekly touchbase meetings with Ace. They meet twice a week—Monday mornings with Mick and Liz, and Friday afternoons with just the two of them. Mick and Liz get their own one-on-ones with Ace too, but unlike Titus, they don’t get to start their meetings with a few quick and dirty rounds of– </p><p> </p><p>“Sparring?”</p><p>“Yes,” Ace nodded, a cup of coffee cradled in his hands. “I was wondering if you’d be willing to spar with me before our touchbase meetings.”</p><p>The memory of Measurehead lying unconscious in a small pool of his own blood flashed through Titus’ mind. He barely stopped himself from blurting, “Hell no!”</p><p>“Why would you want to spar with me?” he asked instead, hoping that he didn’t sound as scared as he felt. “Can’t you just ask one of your bodyguards?”</p><p>Ace added a dollop of cream to his coffee. “Of course I can. But none of them are former prizefighters.”</p><p>He dipped a teaspoon into his cup and stirred exactly three times. Then, he set down the spoon, sipped his coffee, and looked at Titus’ stunned face.</p><p>“So. Do you accept?”</p><p> </p><p>Titus narrowed his eyes. “How’d you—?”</p><p>Ace’s poker face didn’t budge, save for the tiniest quirk of his lips.</p><p>“...You know what? Never mind,” Titus muttered. Evrart probably squealed on him during those meetings that he had with Ace, and as much as he wanted to strangle that goddamned pig right now, Ace was still waiting for his answer.</p><p>And so, in the face of that infinitely patient gaze, Titus did what any sane person would‘ve done—</p><p>He tried to worm his way out of it.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m rusty as hell, Ace. It’s been years since I’ve been in the ring.” He shook his head sadly for added effect. “Probably won’t be much use to you as a sparring partner.”</p><p>Ace didn’t buy his act. “I’m not expecting an all-out fight. Just a few punches here and there. Maybe a few kicks.” He shrugged. “Nothing you can’t handle, I’m sure.”</p><p>Unfortunately, Titus clearly remembered that it took just one punch and one kick from Ace to knock Measurehead out cold, so he’s not exactly comforted by what Ace just said.</p><p>“Not so sure about that, boss. You need someone who’ll give you a challenge. You’ll kick my ass in ten seconds, with how rusty I am.”</p><p> </p><p>Ace’s face fell.</p><p>“I see,” he murmured. “How disappointing.”</p><p> </p><p>Titus frowned. Ace just let him off the hook, which was exactly what he wanted to happen.</p><p>So why the hell did he feel so bad about it?</p><p>“Sorry, Ace,” he said, fighting the suicidal urge to take back what he said and agree to the mobster’s request. “Wish I could be more helpful.”</p><p>Ace sighed, a sad, quiet sound that made Titus feel like the scum of the earth.</p><p>“It’s alright, Titus. I understand.” He looked despondently at his coffee. “Your prizefighting days are long behind you. It was unfair of me to assume that you were a better fighter than that Semenese disgrace.”</p><p> </p><p>Titus’ self-reproach quickly became confusion.</p><p>“It’s a shame,” Ace continued, deliberately pressing all of Titus’ buttons. “I was hoping that there was someone in Martinaise who knew how to throw a decent punch. But it seems that bravery is a rare virtue nowadays—”</p><p>“What did you say?”</p><p>Ace looked up, surprised. “I said many things, Titus.” His face was a mask of pure innocence. “I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific.”</p><p> </p><p>Titus gritted his teeth.</p><p>“The bravery part,” he growled.</p><p>“Ah. I said that bravery was a rare virtue these days,” Ace repeated, his tone suggesting that he didn’t mean anything by that—certainly not that Titus was being a fucking coward by refusing to spar with him...</p><p> </p><p><em>It’s a fucking trap, Hardie</em>, Titus told himself. <em>Don’t fall for it.</em></p><p>But his big fat mouth ignored his brain and went, “You callin’ me a coward?”</p><p>“Oh, not at all.” Ace leaned back in his chair and delivered the killing blow. “I’m calling many people cowards. Not just you.”</p><p> </p><p>A few seconds later, Titus found himself looking at Ace’s amused face, which would have collided with his fist if Ace’s palm hadn’t gotten in the way.</p><p>He withdrew his fist slowly from Ace’s grip.</p><p>“Fine. Let’s spar,” he said. “Don’t expect me to hold back just ‘cause you’re my boss.”</p><p>Ace’s eyes twinkled with victory.</p><p>“Good,” he said, sipping his coffee again. “It wouldn’t be any fun if you did.”</p><p> </p><p>For all his bravado, Titus wasn’t kidding about how rusty he was. So for the rest of that week, he taught himself how to box again—the forms, the footwork, the hooks, the jabs, the feints. He was surprised by how quickly it all came back to him, so much so that by the time Friday rolled around, he was confident that he’d be able to last at least five minutes with Ace.</p><p>He’d been wrong, of course—He lasted only three minutes before Ace knocked him to the ground with a fucking knee to the solar plexus.</p><p> </p><p>“Round two?” Ace asked, barely winded.</p><p>Wincing, Titus staggered back up to his feet and tried to get his breath back. “You always treat your sparring partners like this?” he gasped.</p><p>Ace smirked. “Only the ones that I like.”</p><p> </p><p>They’ve had seven sessions since then, and Titus is proud to say that he can give Ace a run for his money now. It’s as if his body just needed time to remember how to fight again, and now that it’s done that, Titus doesn’t know why he stopped fighting in the first place. He’s forgotten just how fucking good it feels–the thrill of duking it out with a worthy opponent, the freedom of letting his instincts take over, the satisfaction of landing a solid punch. He always comes out of these sessions with a clearer head and a better mood than when he came in, which might’ve been what Ace had in mind when he put these spars before their meetings...</p><p> </p><p>“So what’re you up for today?” Titus asks as he rotates his shoulders and shakes out his limbs.</p><p>“We can start off light and easy. Then we can go all-out, if you want,” Ace replies.</p><p>Titus hesitates. The last time they went all-out, he ended up with a black eye, while Ace got that split lip. The men had pestered him about it for <em>weeks</em>.</p><p>“I dunno, boss.” He scratches his nape. “I kind of want to live to see another day.”</p><p>Ace nods. “Alright. We’ll take it easy, then,” which in Ace-speak, means that he’ll only sucker punch Titus around three times today. “Ready?”</p><p>Raising his fists, Titus grins and starts bouncing on his feet. “You bet.”</p><p> </p><p>Ace’s lips quirk up.</p><p>Then, he disappears.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Straight jab!</em>
</p><p>Trusting his instincts, Titus hops back and barely manages to block the punch that Ace aims at his sternum. He counters with a swift right hook, but the mobster dodges just in time.</p><p>“Almost got you there,” Titus quips, as they warily circle each other again.</p><p>“Are you kidding? That wasn’t even close,” Ace replies, cocky.</p><p> </p><p>An hour later, Titus finds himself sitting on the ground with his back pressed against the bedroom window and an ice-cold beer pressed against the new bruise on his cheek.</p><p>“Damn, Ace,” he mutters. “Thought you said we were gonna take it easy.”</p><p>“We did take it easy.” Ace sits down beside him, a beer in one hand and his jacket in the other. “You’re still alive, aren’t you?”</p><p>Titus winces. “Gee. Thanks.”</p><p> </p><p>A fleeting smile appears on the mobster’s face. “Here, drink up. You deserve it.” He cracks open the second can of beer before handing it over to Titus, who accepts it gratefully and takes a long, deep chug.</p><p>“Fuck, that hits the spot,” Titus hisses. “You sure you don’t want one?” He offers the beer that he used to nurse his cheek to the mobster.</p><p>Ace waves it away, choosing instead to pull out a battered pack of Astras and a brass lighter from his jacket.</p><p>“You have your vice, I have mine,” he says, placing a stick between his lips and lighting up.</p><p> </p><p>They sit in silence for a few moments—Titus sipping his beer and Ace smoking his cigarette. It should feel awkward, but it’s not—at least, not for Titus. He’s feeling nice and mellow right now, thanks to the beer and to the sparring that they just did. His face doesn’t hurt that much too, though his bruised cheek will most likely be the talk of the town come Monday morning...</p><p>He glances at Ace from the corner of his eye. The mobster looks just as content as him, and Titus finds himself wondering how many people have seen Ace like this—relaxed, unguarded. Peaceful, almost.</p><p>He looks away before his mind starts wandering again.</p><p> </p><p>“How are things at the site?” Ace asks, promptly switching into work mode.</p><p>“It was a good week,” Titus replies without missing a beat. “Framing’s almost done, and no one broke any limbs or lost any fingers.”</p><p>“Excellent,” Ace says, though Titus isn’t sure if he’s referring to the framing or the lack of workplace injuries or both. “Any news on the windows?”</p><p>“Yeah. Tibbs said he’d have those ready by next week. He’ll even give us a discount, since I’m family and all.”</p><p>Ace raises an eyebrow. “You’re related to our window supplier?”</p><p>“Yeah, didn’t I mention that to you before? He’s my brother.” Titus raps his knuckles against the window behind him. “He’s the one who installed these, along with the rest of the windows here at the Whirling.”</p><p> </p><p>Ace takes this in with keen interest. “I see.” Then, in a rare moment of small talk, he goes, “Tibbs is a strange name.”</p><p>Titus chuckles. “Nah, that’s just his nickname. His real name’s Tiberius.”</p><p>“Titus and Tiberius,” Ace murmurs thoughtfully. “Your parents must have loved their history, to have named you both like that.”</p><p>“It was my mom’s idea,” Titus says, warming up to the topic. “She was the bookworm in our family. My dad—His name’s Timothy, by the way—just wanted us to have similar nicknames: Timmy, Tibby, and—well, you get the picture.”</p><p>Ace gives him a sympathetic look. “My condolences.”</p><p>Titus nods. “Thanks. Most people just laugh when I tell them about my nickname. But they end up calling me Titus anyway, because I’m so persuasive,” he says, demonstrating his persuasiveness by crushing his now-empty beer can in his fist.</p><p> </p><p>Ace chuckles—actually fucking chuckles—at that, and Titus can’t help but smile at the sound. “You certainly have a way with people,” the mobster says. “Mick’s not the friendliest person, but he warmed up to you very quickly. Same goes for Liz. It’s very impressive.”</p><p>Titus almost drops his second beer. Ace? Being impressed by him?</p><p>He blames the rush of warmth on his face to all the alcohol in his system.</p><p>“It’s no big deal,” he says, hoping that Ace doesn’t notice how red his face is right now. “You have a way with people too, you know. Whenever the guys start slacking off at the site, all I need to do is mention your name, and they rush back to work as if someone set their asses on fire.”</p><p>Ace rolls his eyes. “That’s different. They’re afraid of me. But they respect you.”</p><p>Titus wants to say that the men respect Ace too, but then he realizes that he’s actually not so sure about that...</p><p>“I respect you,” he ends up saying.</p><p> </p><p>It’s only when Ace gives him a surprised look that Titus realizes what he just said.</p><p>“I mean,” he splutters, flustered. “You kick my ass every time we spar. And you never lose your cool, even when things get rough,” he says, remembering the scene in Evrart’s container. “And you trusted me enough to make me your foreman, even if I know shit about construction work—”</p><p>Ace actually laughs this time, and Titus’ poor brain goes offline for a second.</p><p>“So yeah,” he mutters, once he’s recovered from the shock of hearing that wonderful sound. “I respect you.”</p><p>Ace studies him with quiet, grateful eyes, and Titus spots a Very Interesting speck on the ground that warrants his full and immediate attention.</p><p> </p><p>“Thank you, Titus,” the mobster says, smiling. “I respect you too.”</p><p>Titus feels like Ace just smacked him in the face again.</p><p>“Uh. Cool.” He coughs. “Guess we’re even then.”</p><p> </p><p>Ace’s smile stays on his face, so Titus tries to save his own dignity by steering their conversation to a different topic. “So. I, uh. Thought of someone who could be our arcade manager.”</p><p>The mobster leans back against the window, his cigarette dangling from his lips. “Go on,” he murmurs.</p><p>“Guy named Siileng,” Titus says, trying to focus on anything other than Ace’s mouth. “Samaran. Has a stall by the waterlock where he sells pirated relief goods to the poor folk of Martinaise.”</p><p>Ace’s eyes light up. “Ah, a cutthroat bloodsucker. I like him already. When can we have the interview?”</p><p>“Wait. That’s it?” Titus looks at him in surprise. “Thought the application process was gonna be more...rigorous,” he says, gesturing vaguely with his can of beer.</p><p>“We’re not exactly swimming in applicants for the position right now, Titus,” Ace points out. “And besides, he shouldn’t be that bad, if you’re recommending him.”</p><p> </p><p>It takes Titus a moment to realize what Ace meant by that.</p><p>Namely, “I trust you.”</p><p>A few more of his brain cells promptly die out.</p><p> </p><p>Terrified by the sudden massacre of so many of their brethren, his last remaining neurons rally together and try to compensate for their deceased compatriots. To their credit, what they manage to put together and propel out of his mouth is, “Okay. How about Monday afternoon?”</p><p> </p><p>They talk about work for a bit longer—progress reports, schedules, material shipments, and all the other nitty-gritty stuff that Titus can’t talk about with his men without boring them to death. But Ace just takes it all in with business-like efficiency, asking smart questions and giving even smarter answers.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, by the way,” Titus says, when his brain has recovered its capacity to form longer sentences, “one of the guys is asking for an advance.”</p><p>Ace wearily exhales a plume of smoke. “If it’s Dennis, you know what my answer will be.”</p><p>Titus understands where his boss’ irritation is coming from. Shanks might be a sharp little bastard, but he’s an absolute idiot when it comes to handling money. One moment, you’re handing him his weekly pay, the next, he’s off to the bookies, placing his bets on fucking TipTop racers. Titus knows better than to bother Ace about that though, especially since Shanks has asked for an advance four times over the past two months already.</p><p>“It’s not Shanks, for once. It’s Gus Anderson, one of our carpenters. Used to make deliveries for FALN, but his lorry broke down in April, so now he’s working for us.”</p><p>“What does he need the money for?”</p><p>Titus winces. “See, FALN has this weird policy of making their drivers pay for their lorry repairs. It’s a ‘You break it, you pay for it,’ kind of thing. They sent some company men to Gus’ house this week to uh, ‘remind’ him about that responsibility of his.”</p><p>Ace’s face darkens, and Titus knows that the mobster gets the picture.</p><p>“Talked to him right in front of his wife and kids, too,” Titus mutters, crushing his second beer can. “Poor guy came to me in tears yesterday.”</p><p> </p><p>Ace smokes silently for a few seconds, his face pensive.</p><p>“Alright, he can have the advance,” he says, to Titus’ relief. “But before you give it to him, I want to take a look at his lorry first.”</p><p>Titus frowns. “His lorry? What for?”</p><p>“I want to see if I can fix it.” Ace taps ash off his cigarette. “Tinkering with cars happens to be a hobby of mine.”</p><p> </p><p>Titus does a double-take. Hearing Ace share something about himself was like seeing the moon rise at noon. Or seeing snow fall in the middle of summer...</p><p>“Not surprised to hear that. You’re pretty good with your hands,” he hears himself say.</p><p><em>Holy fucking shit, Hardie! You just keep on digging your own grave!!!</em> His poor, overheated brain screams at him.</p><p> </p><p>But before Titus can do some damage control, Ace shrugs and takes his compliment in stride. “I don’t know if I’ll be able to fix his lorry,” he says modestly. “But I want to try, at least.”</p><p>Titus smiles. It’s getting harder and harder to convince himself that Ace is a bad guy, especially when the mobster pulls off stunts like these...</p><p>“Thanks, Ace. I’ll make sure to tell Gus. Oh, and uh, just a word of warning: He’s a pretty nervous guy, so he might get a heart attack when he sees you in person.”</p><p>Ace smirks. “I’ll try to be as unintimidating as possible,” he says, which Titus thinks is impossible, to be honest.</p><p> </p><p>Satisfied, Titus stretches his arms over his head until his back pops. “Well, that’s all from my end,” he sighs happily, “What about you?”</p><p>He glances over at Ace just in time to catch the mobster staring at him with a strange look on his face.</p><p>“Ace?” He frowns. “You okay?”</p><p>His boss quickly looks away.</p><p>“Khm. Yes. I’m fine.”</p><p> </p><p>Titus’ frown deepens. His bullshit-meter’s pinging like crazy, which means the mobster's hiding something from him. But what...?</p><p>Anyone with two working brain cells could’ve figured this out, but since most of Titus’ neurons had been decimated during his conversation with Ace, he chalks up his boss’ strange behavior to—of all things—the weather.</p><p>“You wanna go cool off inside? It’s pretty humid out here,” he says, unknowingly making his boss’ situation even worse by plucking at his sweat-drenched wifebeater.</p><p>The mobster gapes at him for a few seconds, which just makes Titus worry even more.</p><p>“I’m...fine,” Ace says, his voice strangely hoarse. Then he seems to come back to himself and remember something. “Actually, there’s something else that I wanted to talk about with you, Titus.”</p><p> </p><p>They stare at each other for a beat.</p><p><em>Oh no, mister, </em>Titus' narrowed eyes convey.<em> You're not getting away that easily</em>, </p><p><em>Watch me</em>, Ace's raised eyebrow retorts.</p><p> </p><p>As always, Titus experiences a resounding defeat in this battle of wills.</p><p>"Okay, I'm listening," he mutters, glaring at his boss. </p><p>Ace gives him a smug look of victory before speaking. "I'm thinking of staying in the neighborhood for a few months, just to make sure that everything's in place before the arcade opens. Do you have a place that you can recommend?"</p><p> </p><p>Titus doesn't know what he was expecting Ace to say, but he sure as hell wasn't expecting him to say<em> that</em>.</p><p>"Not sure why you'd want to do that, boss," he says carefully. "This ain't exactly Grand Couron, you know."</p><p>"I'm not looking for five-star accommodations, Titus." Ace breathes out a cloud of smoke. "Just a roof and four walls."</p><p> </p><p>Titus is baffled. Why the hell does Ace want to move here, of all places? He probably lives in a fucking mansion in Saint-Batiste, and he could definitely afford a personal chaffeur to drive him here everyday, if need be. </p><p>Besides, Mick, Liz, and Titus are doing a pretty swell job of managing the construction on his behalf already. So why would he want to be more involved? </p><p><em>Maybe he doesn't trust you that much after all</em>, a little voice whispers to him. </p><p>Titus tells it to go fuck itself.</p><p> </p><p>"Well, you could always just rent a room here." He gestures to the bedroom behind them. "Garte’s fine with long-term leases, and the food's decent too."</p><p>Ace shakes his head. "I'd prefer a flat, actually. I can cook and clean for myself. Besides," he stubs out his cigarette on the ground beside him. "I don't want to attract too much attention."</p><p>Titus wants to point out that Ace would attract attention even if he lived in a shack by the fishing village, but he wisely keeps his mouth shut and thinks about their other options.</p><p>"If it's a flat you want, then we can check out the Capeside Apartments," he says. "It's right behind the arcade, and the landlord's an old buddy of mine. I could ask him if he has any free units that we can check out."</p><p> </p><p>It occurs to Titus that he said, "we." Meaning he's already volunteered to go house-hunting with Ace.</p><p>It also occurs to him that he has no intention of taking it back. At all.</p><p> </p><p>If the mobster catches onto him, he doesn't show it. "That would be good," he says. "Let me know what you find out, and I'll free up my schedule so we can have a viewing."</p><p>It doesn't escape Titus' notice that Ace said "we" too.</p><p>The thought pleases him more than he expected.</p><p> </p><p>Seems like Lady Luck was smiling on Ace that night, because when Titus visits the Capeside Apartments a few days later, he finds out that there’s a semi-furnished unit up for grabs on the third floor. He and Ace check it out after Siileng’s interview (the man got hired on the spot, after trying to sell a pair of really ugly sunglasses to Ace and asking for his autograph on a relief food packet), and now, Titus is standing at the doorway while Ace paces around the tiny shoebox with a look of wonder on his face.</p><p>“Don’t remember it being this dingy,” Titus quips as he eyes the cobwebs hanging from the corners of the living room. “They’ve really worked on the ambience.”</p><p>“Nothing a good cleaning won’t fix.” Ace peers into the kitchen. “Look, it even comes with a refrigerator.”</p><p>They open the fridge to check if it’s working (it is), but they also find a strange, brownish substance staining its compartments...</p><p>“Wanna put the ice bear here instead?” Titus asks, eyeing the goop warily.</p><p>“Hm,” Ace seems to think about it. “I’ll pass. I don’t want to get mauled by my refrigerator in my sleep.”</p><p> </p><p>Titus chuckles. “Yeah, I know right—”</p><p>Then, his mind catches up to him.</p><p>Did...Did Ace just crack a fucking<em> joke</em>???</p><p>But before he can gape at his boss, Ace is already walking out of the kitchen.</p><p> </p><p>The bedroom’s even smaller than the living room, but it does look pretty cozy, if you ignore the water stains in the ceiling. Or the leaking sink in the bathroom. Or the broken window...</p><p>“I like it,” Ace says, to Titus’ shock. “Needs some work, but it’ll do nicely.”</p><p>“You sure?” Titus walks around and studies the cracks on the walls. “You might be better off renting a room at the Whirling, with all the repairs that we’d need to do.”</p><p>
  
</p><p><em>You said “we” again</em>, the sensible part of him points out.</p><p>But Titus is too busy thinking of how to make this flat more livable for Ace to pay it any mind.</p><p>In fact, he’s so busy thinking about this that he doesn’t notice the surprised look that Ace gives him, or the small, grateful smile that replaces it shortly after.</p><p>“Yes,” Ace murmurs, still looking at Titus with the smile on his face, “I’m sure.”</p><p> </p><p>Their last stop for the day is the roundabout, where Gus Anderson is waiting for them beside his broken lorry (which the Hardie Boys were kind enough to tow over from their house). Titus made sure to tell him about Ace’s visit a few days early so that he had enough time to mentally prepare himself, but Gus still almost pisses his pants when he sees them coming.</p><p>“M-m-m-mister A-a-a-a-a-ace!” Gus stammers out, his knobby knees knocking together. “I, I uh...”</p><p>Ace gives him a small smile. “Relax, Mr. Anderson. Titus told me about your problem,” he says, his voice surprisingly kind. “May I see your lorry?”</p><p> </p><p>Titus doesn’t know much about cars, but even he can tell that Gus’ lorry is in bad shape. The paint’s peeling off it in a lot of places, and its tires are almost bald. The hood’s gaping open like the maw of a dead animal, waiting for a kind soul to either resurrect it or pronounce it officially dead.</p><p>When Ace peers into the engine compartment, his face is strangely sad.</p><p>“Poor thing,” he murmurs, gently patting the rusty hood above his head.</p><p>Meanwhile, Titus is surprised to realize that he’s getting jealous of a rusty bucket of bolts.</p><p> </p><p>“How long have you had this lorry, Gus?” Ace asks.</p><p>“Uh. E-e-eight yea-years, sir.”</p><p> </p><p>Ace nods, his eyes still locked onto the engine. “Do you have your toolbox with you?”</p><p>As Gus scrambles to open his driver’s compartment, Titus walks over to stand beside Ace. When he peers into the engine, all he sees is an oil-stained tangle of tubes and metal, way past its prime and worked to death.</p><p>“There any hope left for this thing?” Titus murmurs.</p><p>Ace peers closer at the engine. “We’ll see.”</p><p>Once Gus gives him the tools, Ace hands his jacket over to Titus, cracks his knuckles, and gets to work.</p><p> </p><p>Thirty minutes later, Ace’s arms are covered in grease up to the elbows, but he has a satisfied look on his face.</p><p>“Try turning her on, Gus.”</p><p>The lorry driver blinks at him. “O-o-okay.”</p><p>He gets into the driver’s seat and turns the key.</p><p> </p><p>The lorry convulses violently for a few seconds, coughing out clouds of greasy, black smoke.</p><p>Then, like an old consumptive patient making a miraculous recovery, it sputters back to life.</p><p> </p><p>With a cry of joy, Gus leaps out of his lorry and, to Titus’ amusement, wraps his skinny arms around a shocked Ace.</p><p>“Thank you, Mr. Ace!!!” he wails, his face a mess of snot and tears. “I—I don’t know how to...how to thank—”</p><p>With a pained look on his face, Ace gives Gus a few awkward pats on the back.</p><p>“Don’t mention it, Mr. Anderson,” he says, trying—and failing—to extricate himself from the hug. “It was your radiator. Something was blocking the intake tube, so I took it apart and pulled out the obstruction—”</p><p>Unfortunately for him, Gus is too busy bawling his eyes out to pay attention to what he’s saying. “I owe you big time, sir!” the lorry driver gurgles. “Imma find a way to pay you back for this! I—I promise!!!”</p><p> </p><p>Ace looks helplessly at Titus.</p><p>“Alright, Gus,” Titus says, finally taking pity on his poor boss. “You’d better let go of Mr. Ace before you get snot on his shirt.”</p><p>Gus gasps in horror and jumps six feet away from the mobster. “O-oh my god! I—I’m so sorry, Mr. Ace!!!”</p><p>Ace picks at his already-sodden shirt, his nose scrunched up in a mild grimace. “It’s fine, Mr. Anderson. No harm done.”</p><p> </p><p>“You must be some kind of miracle worker, Ace,” Titus says later on. “Pretty sure that lorry was done for.”</p><p>They’ve made their way back to their usual room at the Whirling so that Ace could wash up and change his shirt. Titus is sitting at the couch right now, cap and jacket thrown carelessly on the coffee table in front of him. He went ahead and got them a can of beer each, and they ordered some dinner before coming up here too, since they’re both famished.</p><p>“I’m no miracle worker, Titus,” Ace says, walking out of the bathroom while scrubbing his hair with a towel. “That engine was an old model, so it was easy to fix.”</p><p>Titus scoots over to make room for his boss. “Tell that to Gus. He looked ready to start offering incense to you or something.”</p><p>Ace shudders, probably remembering that awful hug. “I’m glad he didn’t.” He grabs the beers and tosses one to Titus, who catches it easily. “Cheers?”</p><p>Titus grins. “Cheers.”</p><p> </p><p>They crack open their beers together, and Titus almost moans with relief with that first, satisfying swig.</p><p>“Oh, that’s good,” he sighs. Then, he spots something on Ace’s face. “Oh. You still got some oil on you.”</p><p>Ace blinks at him. “Where?”</p><p>“Here,” Titus points at his own cheek, right beneath his left eye.</p><p> </p><p>Ace wipes his cheek with the back of his hand, but it just ends up spreading the smudge even more. “Did I get it?”</p><p>Titus has to cover his face with his hand to stop himself from laughing, because holy fucking shit, this is <em>hilarious.</em></p><p>...And kind of cute too, a really small part of him admits.</p><p> </p><p>He puts down his beer on the table. “Here, lemme—”</p><p>It takes him a second to realize what he’s doing.</p><p>But it’s too late—His hand’s already cupping Ace’s chin. His thumb’s already hovering over Ace’s cheek. His eyes are already locked onto Ace’s own, which are wide with surprise...</p><p>Ace’s eyes flit down to his mouth.</p><p> </p><p>Time stops.</p><p>At this moment, as Titus Hardie cradles Kim “Ace” Kitsuragi’s face in his hand, the train that’s carrying them both suddenly slows down as it approaches a junction.</p><p>You see, this cosmic train isn’t heedless of human freedom. On the contrary—its path is determined by the choices that its passengers make, with some choices being weightier than others.</p><p>Two paths branch out before this train right now—two futures that are similar in many ways, but hold very different endings for Titus and Kim.</p><p> </p><p>The train would have gone down the first path had either of them leaned forward and closed the distance between their mouths.</p><p>On that path, the night would have ended in the bedroom above them, their clothes haphazardly discarded on the floor, with Titus lying awake in the dark, staring up at the ceiling with a sleeping Ace draped over his bare chest.</p><p>He would have wondered what the hell he’d just done.</p><p>He wouldn’t have regretted a single second of it.</p><p> </p><p>On that path, they would have managed to keep their relationship a secret, playing their roles of boss and foreman with impeccable decorum. Titus would have found himself falling deeper and deeper for this quiet, dangerous man, and Ace...</p><p>Ace would have let himself fall for Titus too.</p><p> </p><p>But if they had gone down that path, the inevitable would still have happened. Ace’s siblings would still have visited Martinaise. They would still have been murdered—one by a sniper, the other by an innocent bystander who just wanted to prevent more bloodshed. Ace would still have tried to cover it up by driving the corpses of his siblings into the ocean. He would still have met a certain detective who was famous for cracking cases—and criminals—wide open.</p><p>But he wouldn’t have fallen for the detective, no—</p><p>He wouldn’t have fallen for Harry, because his heart already belonged to Titus.</p><p> </p><p>On that path, Ace would have successfully led the detectives around in circles. He would also have successfully drawn Titus and boys away from Martinaise, thanks to his deal with Glen.</p><p>He would have faced Jack alone.</p><p> </p><p>And when Titus would have realized what had happened, it would have been too late.</p><p> </p><p>On that path, Titus would have driven back to Martinaise from the hospital where Glen was confined. He would have arrived at the waterfront, gun clutched in his hands, heart hammering in his chest...</p><p>He would have shouted Ace’s name as he ran through the burning, bullet-stained battlefield.</p><p> </p><p>Then, he would have seen Ace.</p><p>He would have stopped in his tracks.</p><p>He would have ran.</p><p>He would have knelt beside the broken, bloodied body.</p><p>He would have taken it in his arms.</p><p>He would have cradled it against his chest.</p><p>He would have wept. Bitterly. Furiously.</p><p>He would have screamed at the sky—</p><p> </p><p>Because on that path, no one would have been there at Ace’s side to shield him from the bullet aimed at his head, and the other bullet aimed at his heart.</p><p> </p><p>But Titus doesn’t know any of this.</p><p>All he knows right now is that Ace is looking at him with a strange look in his eyes, and his skin is smooth under Titus’ fingers...</p><p>The train veers towards the first path—</p><p> </p><p>Then...</p><p>Someone knocks at the door.</p><p> </p><p>Titus and Ace leap apart.</p><p> </p><p>The train lurches to the side—</p><p>And starts hurtling down the second path.</p><p> </p><p>“Mr. Hardie?” Sylvie Malaìika’s voice resounds through the door. “I brought your dinner.”</p><p>“I’ll be there in a sec, Sylvie,” he hollers, his eyes still trained onto the mobster’s stunned face.</p><p>What the fuck was he just about to do...?</p><p> </p><p>It’s Ace who recovers first.</p><p>“You should go get the door,” he says, looking away from Titus, his voice quiet and even.</p><p>That snaps Titus out of it.</p><p>“Yeah.” He nods, dumbly. “Yeah, I should.”</p><p> </p><p>They eat in silence, neither of them willing to talk about whatever it was that just happened.</p><p>Then, when Ace gets up to leave, Titus blocks his way.</p><p>“Hey, Ace. I’m, uh,” he scratches his nape sheepishly. “I’m sorry. For...”</p><p>Ace tilts his head. “There’s nothing to be sorry about, Titus,” he says.</p><p>Then, after giving Titus a small, sad smile, he steps to the side and walks out the door.</p><p> </p><p>Titus has a hard time sleeping that night.</p><p>And if he ends up dreaming of what could have been...</p><p>Then he doesn’t remember that dream come the next morning.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>And so the days pass.</p><p>Thanks to Titus' help, Ace gets to move into the Capeside Apartments a month later. News about what he did for Gus goes around like wildfire, and before long, he's getting requests from lorry drivers left and right to check out their machines. He sets up shop in the Whirling's backyard. Titus helps him with repairs whenever he can.</p><p>Three months later, the Bling Bling Bonanza holds its grand opening. Siileng gives a magnificent speech. Ace is nowhere to be seen, though Titus eventually finds him holed up in Room 3, watching everything from the balcony. </p><p>They celebrate by having food delivered up to the room and by drinking a few beers. Titus tries out Ace's cigarettes. He decides to stick to beer.</p><p> </p><p>Five months go by. A year. Two years. And in that time, life goes back to normal. The Hardie Boys keep the peace around Martinaise again, though the Claire brothers bother them a lot less nowadays. The Bling Bling Bonanza fails to fail, turning into a booming enterprise that convinces everyone that the curse was just a pile of bullshit after all.</p><p>Everyone starts getting used to having Ace around. They invite him to their homes for dinner. They invite him to karaoke nights at the Whirling. They ask him to fix their lorries, their cars, their bicycles. </p><p>And Ace...</p><p>Ace turns down a few dinner invitations, but he does go to most of them. And he fixes all of their vehicles, for free.</p><p> </p><p>As for Titus, he goes back to being the Hardie Boys' leader. He makes it a point to spar with Ace at least once a month. He agrees to become the security head for the Bling Bling Bonanza. He tries not to smile whenever Siileng tries to hug Ace. He ends up smiling anyway when Ace lets Annette hug him all the time.</p><p>He forgets about missed opportunities, and focuses on treasuring whatever he has right now. </p><p>His job. His friends. His hometown. </p><p>...Ace.</p><p> </p><p>Then one day, Ace’s siblings arrive in Martinaise.</p><p>And everything goes to hell.</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0016"><h2>16. Ace</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>In the darkness before dawn, Martinaise sleeps like the dead.</p><p> </p><p>A gale howls through the waterfront. Outside the Whirling-in-Rags, a barely-smoked Astra lies in a puddle of melted sleet, a water-logged relic from the previous night’s events. There are other artifacts, but it would have taken a detective to spot them: a pair of footprints—a size-45 and a size-43—stamped on a pile of slush by the Bling Bling Bonanza; a few drops of dried blood on the gravel outside the Capeside Apartments; a set of tire tracks careening towards the 8/81...</p><p> </p><p>Less than a mile away, on the dilapidated boardwalk behind the FALN building, a working-class man stumbles towards a trash bin, clutching a bottle of vodka in one hand and a crumpled gum wrapper in the other. His breath reeks of alcohol. His shirt is stained with kebab sauce. His foot cracks through a rotten plank—</p><p>It will be days before he’s found.</p><p> </p><p>One floor above the recently deceased’s apartment, another man lies prone on a narrow bed. He appears to be sleeping—his eyes are closed; his posture is relaxed; his breathing is even. A clock ticks away on the bedstand, patiently counting down to the moment when it forces its master to drop his act and get out of bed. Even if he hasn’t gotten a single wink of sleep. Even if the acrid taste of betrayal still lingers in his mouth. Even his heart is a fistful of shattered glass buried in his chest.</p><p>When the alarm goes off at exactly five o’ clock, it’s swiftly silenced by a deft hand.</p><p>A beat later, Ace opens his eyes and drops to the floor to start his morning routine.</p><p> </p><p>Habit is a powerful thing, he muses as his arms piston away beneath him. Take these push-ups, for example. He must have struggled through them once upon a time, back when he was a scrawny kid who could barely support his own weight. But after nearly 30 years of doing push-ups every morning, he can now go through thirty-five of them without breaking a sweat. It used to be that he’d do fifty a day. But he cut it down when he moved to Martinaise, both as a petty act of rebellion against his family and a grudging acknowledgement of the fact that he’s no longer the spry, young man that he used to be.</p><p> </p><p>...Or maybe King was right. Maybe Martinaise has made him soft. Lax. <em>Weak</em>.</p><p> </p><p>Ace grits his teeth.</p><p>Then, in a burst of strength, he launches his upper body into the air, claps once, and catches himself on the way down.</p><p>He knows that he doesn’t need to prove himself to anyone, much less to a dead man. But he does five more reps anyway, punctuating each one with a muttered curse:  </p><p>“Fuck you, King. Fuck you, Jack. Fuck you, Father. Fuck you, Evrart. Fuck you, Ha---”</p><p> </p><p>He pauses at the zenith of the last rep, his arms taut and trembling, the detective’s name still wedged in his throat like a splinter of bone...</p><p>“Fuck you,” he hisses.</p><p> </p><p>Winded, Ace lowers himself to the floor and flops onto his back. His shitty eyesight’s even shitter in the dark, so the only thing that he sees is an almost-solid mass of darkness bearing down on him. Like cold, dank earth...</p><p>One more day, he thinks to himself. Just one more day, and the darkness will swallow him up completely. Then he and Kim won’t have to worry about anything--or anyone--ever again.  </p><p> </p><p>Speaking of Kim...</p><p>He focuses his senses inwards.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Kim?</em>
</p><p>No answer.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Fine. I’ll take care of us today. </em>
</p><p>Again, nothing.</p><p> </p><p>With half of his soul missing, Ace gets up from the floor and heads to the kitchen.</p><p> </p><p>This isn’t the first time it’s happened. Every now and then, one of them would take a break and let the other one handle things for a while. Like when Ace exchanged some choice words with their Father and had to lie low for a week. Or when Kim disappeared for a few days after they wiped out that rival gang in Villalobos. In other words, whenever one of them fucked up so badly that he needed some time to lick his wounds.</p><p> </p><p>It’s times like these that Ace really appreciates having someone else around in his head. Thanks to their little tag-team, he and Kim have managed to withstand some truly devastating shit—shit that would’ve broken even the toughest motherfuckers, unless those motherfuckers happened to have a spare mind lying around. It’s also the only reason why they didn’t end up as batshit crazy as the rest of their siblings, each of whom reacted to their father’s tender loving care in their own ways—King and Jack resorted to brute violence; Queen cloaked herself in lies; Joker revelled in chaos; while Ace—</p><p>Ace would’ve been the worst of them all, if Kim hadn’t been around to keep him human.</p><p> </p><p>So yes, he’s grateful that Kim’s around. But this gratitude is tempered by the knowledge that if Kim hadn’t been adopted by that tall, gaunt man all those years ago, then he—Ace—would never have existed. He wouldn’t have <em>needed</em> to exist, because Kim wouldn’t have been forced to do the unspeakable things that eventually snapped his mind into two.</p><p>...He wouldn’t have minded not existing. If it meant that Kim got to live a normal life.</p><p> </p><p>But there’s no use thinking about that now. Not with Jack arriving tomorrow, most likely with Phyllis and that rabid dog Ruud in tow. With Kim out for the count, it’ll be up to Ace to prepare for tomorrow and tie up any loose ends. Like finishing those repairs on Tommy’s lorry, for example.</p><p>He beats up a couple of eggs for breakfast and makes a mental to-do list: Fix the lorry. Wait for Tommy to pick it up. Go to the Bonanza. Tell Siileng not to open the arcade tomorrow. Say goodbye to Plaisance and Annette—</p><p>His hand pauses for the briefest second before resuming its assault on the eggs.</p><p> </p><p>As he goes off to make some coffee, his mind drifts to the long, white envelope lying on the coffee table in the living room. It contains a three-page letter that he wrote two days ago, after Joker’s surprise visit. The letter starts with an apology, followed by a meticulous set of instructions about how to run the Bonanza in his absence, as well as the details to a bank account that contains a significant sum of cash, which should be distributed to the individuals whose names are listed on the third page. If he recalls correctly, it ends with the words: “Thank you for all the kindness you’ve shown me these past two years.”</p><p>He’s certain that Titus won’t be in a very kind mood when he finally gets to read it.</p><p> </p><p>Ten minutes later, he walks out of the kitchen and heads to the dining table, carrying a mug of coffee and a plate of scrambled eggs. But just as he’s about to sit down, his eyes land on the chair across from him. The one that still has rust-red splatters on its top rail—</p><p>He eats in the kitchen instead.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Three hours later, Ace is putting the last touches on Tommy le Homme’s engine when suddenly, he sees someone enter the Whirling’s backyard from the corner of his eye. Someone tall. Hefty.</p><p>He pretends not to notice.</p><p>Meanwhile, his hand drifts towards the wrench that’s hanging from his toolbelt...</p><p> </p><p>“Morning, Ace. That Tommy’s lorry you’re working on?”</p><p>Ace relaxes.</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah.” He turns to face his guest. “His engine died on him two days ago.”</p><p>“Huh.” Frowning, Titus Hardie walks over to his side and peers into the open hood of the lorry. “Lemme guess. His timing belt needed replacing.”</p><p>Ace smirks, impressed. “That’s right. How’d you know?”</p><p> </p><p>The dockworker grins. “Learned from the best,” he says with a wink.</p><p>...Which makes Ace wonder—not for the first time—why Kim couldn’t just have fallen for Titus Hardie just like he did.</p><p> </p><p>Suddenly eager for something to do, Ace grabs a rag and starts wiping the grease off his hands.</p><p>“So,” he says, in a voice that doesn’t betray any emotion, “What brings you here on this fine, winter morning, Mr. Hardie?”</p><p> </p><p>Titus’ face turns grim.</p><p>“There was an accident yesterday.” He pauses. “It’s Glen.”</p><p>Ace feigns surprise.</p><p>“What happened?”</p><p> </p><p>Titus leans against the lorry’s bumper. “Shipment from Wild Pines came in yesterday,” he says. “Glen was standing on a pile of containers, directing the guy who was operating the crane. Seems like he walked backwards and forgot to look behind him, ‘cause the next thing I know—”</p><p>He stops and glances away, but not before Ace sees the haunted look in his eyes.</p><p>“Long story short,” Titus continues after taking a few seconds to compose himself, “Glen fell off four-stories’ worth of containers and broke his leg in two places.”</p><p> </p><p>As he gazes upon Titus’ misery, Ace silently deliberates how he should respond to it. Gasping in horror? Too theatrical. Putting his hand on Titus’ shoulder? Too intimate.</p><p>In the end, he settles for arranging his face into a mask of empathic concern.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m sorry to hear that, Titus,” he says quietly.</p><p>The dockworker accepts his fabricated commiseration with a nod. “Well. At least he didn’t crack his fucking skull. Or break his back.” He snorts and shakes his head. “For someone who acts all tough, he sure bawled like a fucking baby all the way to the hospital. Don’t tell him I told you, though.”</p><p>“I’ll take it to my grave,” Ace replies, before his mind catches up to him and tells him, in no uncertain terms, that he really, <em>really</em> should have phrased that better.</p><p> </p><p>“How’s he doing?” he asks, still the epitome of genuine, if reserved, worry.</p><p>“Better. The doctors set his leg yesterday. They wanna keep him there for a whole week, the crazy bastards. Glennie’s gonna tear the place down by Day Three. No—Day <em>Two</em>.”</p><p>“I’d give him until Day Five, at least,” Ace says. “He’s handicapped, after all.”</p><p>“Got four words for ya, Boss.” Titus raises four fingers and counts off each word. “Glen. On. A. Wheelchair.”</p><p> </p><p>Ace considers that for a moment.</p><p>“Day Two sounds about right,” he concedes. “But if that’s the case, shouldn’t you be there with him right now? He’s probably setting fire to it as we speak.”</p><p> </p><p>“Nah, it’s fine. Eugene and Al are with him right now, and the white-coats knocked him out with a sedative before I left. Besides,” Titus shrugs. “Can’t just disappear for a week without telling you why. ‘Specially not with those fucking pigs still sniffing around.”</p><p><em>I don’t deserve this man’s loyalty</em>, Ace thinks to himself as Titus glares up at the Whirling’s now-unoccupied second floor. <em>After all, I’m the one who told Glen to have his “accident.”</em></p><p> </p><p>He starts packing away his tools. “The pigs are gone, actually. I took care of them last night.”</p><p>Titus’ eyebrows shoot up. “No shit? What’d you do to them?”</p><p>“Nothing. One of them just had an...accident,” he says diplomatically. “One that was a bit worse than Glen’s.”</p><p>Thankfully, Titus doesn’t ask him to elaborate. “Wouldn’t want to be those guys.” He frowns. “You sure they’re gone for good? I could hang around, in case they come back—”</p><p> </p><p>Ace snaps the lid of his toolbox shut. “They won’t.”</p><p>Silence. Then, Titus coughs awkwardly.</p><p>“Sorry, Boss. I, uh. Didn’t mean to question you like that.”</p><p> </p><p><em>Please don’t apologize</em>, Ace wants to tell him. <em>I’m the one who should be apologizing to you.</em></p><p>Instead, what he ends up saying is, “I told you I’d take care of them, Hardie.” He shakes his head in mock disappointment. “I thought you, of all people, would’ve had more faith in me.”</p><p> </p><p>The dockworker winces. “Aw, come on, Ace. I knew you’d get rid of those pigs! I just...” He sighs. “I just wanted to make sure. That you were okay. You know?”</p><p>At that point, Ace decides that he’d better make Titus leave soon. Because even though his willpower’s as tough as steel, it won’t hold up much longer if Titus keeps saying things like that. </p><p> </p><p>He makes a show of looking himself over. “Looks like I’m okay,” he lies afterwards.</p><p>Titus smiles wryly. “Yeah. Looks like I got all worried for nothing, huh?” To Ace’s relief, he straightens up with a low grunt and brushes off his jeans. “Alright. Guess I should head back to the hospital before Sleeping Bitch wakes up.”</p><p> </p><p>Ace walks with him towards the gate. “I’ll try to visit this weekend,” he says, knowing full well that he won’t be able to do such a thing. “But Glen might not want to see me.”</p><p>Titus snorts. “Fuck Glen. You come visit whenever you want. The boys will be happy to see you.”</p><p> </p><p>The words hang in between them, unspoken, but understood.</p><p>
  <em>I’ll be happy to see you.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Ace forces a smile.</p><p>“Alright,” he says, feeling like the scum of the earth. “I’ll try to go on Saturday, then.”</p><p> </p><p>“Great!” Titus grins. “See ya then, Boss.”</p><p>He turns to leave—</p><p> </p><p>“Titus.”</p><p>Titus looks back at him.</p><p>“Yeah?”</p><p> </p><p><em>I’m sorry. Don’t go. I</em>--</p><p>“Thank you,” Ace hears himself say. “For everything.”</p><p> </p><p>Titus looks a bit confused by that.</p><p>But he smiles anyway.</p><p>“’Course, Boss,” he says, his eyes warm and fond beneath the brim of his cap. “Anytime.”</p><p> </p><p>Minutes later, Ace finds himself still staring at the spot where Titus had stood.</p><p><em>Mind if we swap places?</em> he asks Kim. <em>It’s my turn to sulk.</em></p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t hear a reply. But he gets a mysterious feeling that, somewhere in the depths of their shared unconscious, Kim is politely, but firmly, flipping him off. </p><p>He sighs.</p><p>
  <em>Well, fuck you too.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Tommy arrives to pick up his lorry not long after that. He’s ecstatic, of course—whooping with joy when the engine roars back to life and jumping out of the driver’s seat as soon as the test drive’s done.</p><p>“Here, man.” He brings out an envelope from his pocket. “A little something from me and Laura.”</p><p>“Tommy. We’ve talked about this—”</p><p>But the camionneur thrusts the envelope towards him anyway. “This is the third time you’ve fixed my girl, Ace. Way I see it, FALN owes you a fortune. I’m just giving you your cut.”</p><p>Ace wants to tell Tommy that he <em>really</em> doesn’t need the money—especially not after tomorrow—but the stubborn look in the lorry driver’s eyes convinces him to do otherwise.</p><p> </p><p>Tommy beams when he finally takes the money.</p><p>“Just so you know, I’m planning on giving this to the People’s Fund,” Ace says, referring to the little charity fund that Hardie Boys have set up for the worst-off residents of Martinaise.</p><p>“Go ahead! I’m just glad you took it.” Grinning, Tommy punches him playfully on the arm. “Us drivers have to watch out for each other, you know?”</p><p>And that’s when it hits Ace—the stunning realization that somewhere along the way, the people of Martinaise have come to know and accept him not as the eldest son of the Mazda, or even the owner of the Bling Bling Bonanza, but simply as one of their own.</p><p>A mechanic. A driver.</p><p>A friend.</p><p> </p><p>He swallows the lump in his throat.</p><p>“Yeah,” he says, smiling. “Yeah, we do.”</p><p> </p><p>He takes some time to let his gaze wander around the yard after Tommy leaves. There’s slush and grease everywhere, and the tree beside the trash bin looks like a giant, skeletal hand reaching up towards the sky. But despite all the mud and grime, it’s still the little piece of heaven that he’s been lucky enough to call his own over the past two years.</p><p>He closes his eyes, and breathes in the familiar scents of rust and motor oil for the last time.</p><p>“Thank you,” he whispers into the air.</p><p>A breeze blows through the yard and caresses his cheek. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Miles away from Martinaise, an old man stands in the middle of a garden, his hands clasped behind his back; his posture, ramrod straight. He’s contemplating a patch of red hyacinths, which look like tiny pillars of flame bursting from the earth, but there’s nothing appreciative in his gaze. Instead, he seems to be dissecting them in his mind, tearing them apart one bloody petal at a time...</p><p> </p><p>A woman steps into the garden, her slippered feet barely making any sound on the grass. She bows towards him.</p><p>“The books are about to be closed, <em>danna</em>,” she says in a lilting voice.</p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t look at her. “What are the odds?”</p><p>“Nine to four. In favor of Jack.”</p><p> </p><p>The old man tilts his head.</p><p>Then, he crouches down and plucks a hyacinth from its brethren.</p><p> </p><p>“And the four?”</p><p>“Split evenly between Ace and Joker.”</p><p> </p><p>The man nods to himself. </p><p>“Close the books,” he says, “but put my bet on Ace.”</p><p> </p><p>The woman dips lower. “As you will, <em>danna</em>.”</p><p>When she finally departs, the old man lifts the hyacinth to his face and breathes in deeply.</p><p> </p><p>He smiles. </p><p>“Don’t fail me, son."</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0017"><h2>17. The Detective (Part One)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><b>YOU</b> – You wake up.</p><p>The ground shudders beneath your feet. Empty carriage seats, blood-red upholstery cracked and flaking, line you on both sides. No scenery rushes past the windows—only a pulsing, yellow light that plunges the world in darkness after each beat.</p><p><b>PERCEPTION</b> - The air is stale and musty. As if you were in a coffin. Or a tomb,</p><p><b>INLAND EMPIRE </b>- Fragments of memory float to the surface of your mind: A gloved hand on your face. The taste of citrus and cigarettes in your mouth. </p><p><b>PAIN THRESHOLD</b> [Impossible: Failure] - A door, slammed. Locked. Bolted.  </p><p> </p><p><b>ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN</b> - Welcome back, Harry. Enjoying the ride so far?</p><p><b>VOLITION</b> [Legendary: Success] - He’s toying with you. Don’t play his game. </p><p><b>YOU</b> – Fuck you, Arby. I want to get off. <em> Now</em>. </p><p><b>LIMBIC SYSTEM</b> - A chuckle reverberates through your consciousness like rolling thunder. </p><p><b>ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN </b> – Get off? Oh, that’s rich. A real side-splitter. Haven’t heard bullshit like that in <em> ages </em>. </p><p>Newsflash, brother: You’ve had your chance to get off.</p><p><b>YOU</b> – What do you mean?</p><p><b>ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN</b> – The hospital. You could’ve stayed there, watched over your injured half-brother. You could’ve left all of this behind...</p><p>But you didn’t.</p><p><b>LIMBIC SYSTEM</b> – He crawled out of his bed. He shouted-- <em> begged </em> for you to stay. But you weren’t listening anymore. </p><p><b>ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN</b> – You left him there, Harry. You abandoned him. You <em> chose </em> to get back on this train. </p><p>And now it’s time for the grand tour.</p><p> </p><p><b>PERCEPTION</b> - Something rustles at the end of the carriage. A thousand dead leaves, tossed by the wind.</p><p><b>VOLITION</b> [Impossible: Failure] - You trudge forward, compelled by a will not completely your own.</p><p><b>THE FIRST DOOR</b> – The entryway is covered in a shimmering waterfall of silver-foil streamers. A draft blows in from the darkness beyond.</p><p><b>HALF-LIGHT</b> [Trivial: Success] - No. Stop. Don’t do this. DON’T--</p><p><b>YOU</b> - Mind screaming, you step through the streamers.</p><p> </p><p><b>INLAND EMPIRE</b> – The disco where you first asked her to dance. A live band plays a slow, sad song. Two figures sway beneath the disco ball, their bodies covered in swirling starlight.</p><p><b>PERCEPTION</b> – Her cheek is warm against yours. Her breath tickles your ears. Your hands slide down her waist and come to rest on her hips. </p><p><b>ELECTROCHEMISTRY</b> - Her lips are apricot-sweet. They only become sweeter as the night goes on. </p><p><b>YOU</b> - You blink, and she’s gone. </p><p><b>ELECTROCHEMISTRY</b> - The bar’s closed. The dance floor’s empty. The band stopped playing a long, long time ago.</p><p> </p><p><b>THE SECOND DOOR</b> – Another door appears at the end of the hall. It’s wooden and covered in peeling, green paint. The brass numbers in the center read: “21A”.                                                                                                     </p><p><b>INLAND EMPIRE </b>- An ancient sadness washes over you. Stars die in its wake.</p><p><b>YOU</b> – You gravitate towards the door and push it open.</p><p> </p><p><b>INLAND EMPIRE</b> – Strands of gossamer cover your chest. She murmurs in her sleep, clothed only in the pale, milky light of dawn.</p><p><b>ELECTROCHEMISTRY</b> – You run your fingers through her hair, if only to convince yourself that she’s real.</p><p><b>INLAND EMPIRE</b> - A folded letter on the dining table. Her handwriting flutters across the page. “Every morning, when I step out and you're asleep behind me, I find a little piece of sadness in me. I carry it in my chest down Voyager Road...”</p><p><b>ESPRIT DE CORPS</b> - An envelope arrives from the RCM. You celebrate your acceptance into the academy with a bottle of Commodore Red. </p><p><b>PERCEPTION</b> – A sprig of forget-me-nots blooms in a crystal vase on the dining table. Blue petals, fragile as teardrops, fall onto a stack of unpaid bills.</p><p><b>INLAND EMPIRE </b>– A cold night in October. The two of you waltz in the middle of your lightless apartment, surrounded by the glow of a dozen candles.</p><p><b>EMPATHY</b> - She believed in you. <em> You </em> believed in you.</p><p> </p><p><b>INLAND EMPIRE</b> - When she tells you the news, you sweep her into your arms, laughing, crying, <em> hoping. </em></p><p><b>PERCEPTION</b> - The air smells of raspberries and hope. An ocean full of hope.</p><p><b>CONCEPTUALIZATION</b> - You paint the guest bedroom evergreen. The color of her eyes. The color of fresh starts and new beginnings.</p><p><b>INLAND EMPIRE</b> - You lie with her at night, whispering names to each other like little children sharing secrets in the dark.</p><p><b>PAIN THRESHOLD</b> – Then on a beautiful spring morning, you wake up to the sound of her screams—</p><p><b>HALF-LIGHT</b> - And the meaty stink of blood.</p><p> </p><p><b>INLAND EMPIRE</b> - You name her Dolores.</p><p><b>CONCEPTUALIZATION</b> - Because she was an innocent.</p><p><b>EMPATHY</b> - Because she was your sorrow.</p><p><b>INLAND EMPIRE</b> – Hoarfrost frames the small, open grave with feathers of ice. The casket in your arms contains the weight of the world.</p><p><b>EMPATHY</b> – Pale shadows, all dressed in black, drift in and out of your living room, patting your shoulder and murmuring condolences. She sits on the couch, clad in midnight, her eyes as hollow and empty as her womb. </p><p><b>PAIN THRESHOLD</b> - That’s when it began:</p><p>The slow, inevitable death of love.</p><p> </p><p><b>ESPRIT DE CORPS </b>– You add thirty notches to your ledger. You’re promoted to Sergeant. You sleep in the precinct most nights.</p><p><b>PAIN THRESHOLD </b>– In the rare times that you go home, the silence that stretches out between the two of you is as vast and terrifying as the Pale.</p><p><b>EMPATHY</b> – A child-shaped sadness lingers between every embrace. Nourished by your grief, it grows larger and larger with each passing month. </p><p><b>PERCEPTION</b> – The guest bedroom remains empty. A vase of dead flowers, their petals putrid with mold, mourns over unopened envelopes.</p><p><b>INLAND EMPIRE </b>– Then one night, you come home to another letter on the dining table.</p><p><b>HALF-LIGHT </b>- You rush to the aerodrome---</p><p><b>PAIN THRESHOLD</b> - But the flight to Mirova had already left two hours before.</p><p> </p><p><b>LIMBIC SYSTEM </b>– Ancient grief. Ancient sadness. The desiccated corpse of the past crawls through the damp earth and takes you by the hand. </p><p><b>ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN</b> - Ghostly fingers brush against your cheek. The darkness whispers sweet nothings into your ear in a little girl’s voice.</p><p><b>LIMBIC SYSTEM</b> - Why did you leave, Harry? Why did you run away?</p><p><b>YOU</b> - I...I didn’t leave. She was the one who left—</p><p><b>ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN</b> - Wrong. She waited for you, brother. Waited for you for days. Weeks. Months. But you were too busy trying to save the world. </p><p>She waited for you, and you left her to drown in the black ocean.</p><p><b>LIMBIC SYSTEM</b> – You were afraid. Afraid that if you stayed, the black water would rise up and pull you both under. </p><p><b>ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN </b>– So you ran. You ran and ran and ran and ran, until your feet bled, your legs screamed, and your heart thought it was whole again.</p><p>You’ve never stopped running, Harry. Ten fucking years, and you’ve never. Stopped. <em> Running.</em></p><p> </p><p><b>INLAND EMPIRE </b>– The ground beneath you turns to quicksand, swallowing your feet, your calves, your knees--</p><p><b>HALF-LIGHT</b> - But you feel no fear. Only exhaustion. </p><p><b>VOLITION </b> - You’re tired. Tired of running. Tired of fighting. Tired of <em> living</em>. </p><p><b>INLAND EMPIRE</b> – A field mouse lies paralyzed in the belly of a great, slithering serpent. Its flesh sizzles as it’s digested alive.</p><p> </p><p><b>LIMBIC SYSTEM</b> - Let go, baby boy. You’ve done enough for those evil apes. Let them duke it out on their giant ball and blow each other up with their little bombs. </p><p>Stay here, with us. Safe and sound in the dark.</p><p><b>YOU</b> - You close your eyes...</p><p> </p><p><b>ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN </b>– There is nothing. Only warm, primordial blackness.</p><p> </p><p><b>???</b> - “...du Bois..........over......”</p><p> </p><p><b>ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN </b>- Your conscience ferments in it -- no larger than a single grain of malt. You don't have to do anything any more.</p><p> </p><p><b>???</b> - “.......Detective......come in..........ver..”</p><p> </p><p><b>LIMBIC SYSTEM </b> - A small, urgent voice tickles your consciousness. It comes from <em> that </em>place, the place of pain and loss and suffering—</p><p><b>PERCEPTION (HEARING)</b> – A sharp hiss of static stabs through the dark.</p><p><b>JULES PIDIEU</b> - “Detective Du Bois. Detective Du Bois. Come in. Over.”</p><p><b>YOU </b>– ...Jules?</p><p> </p><p><b>LIMBIC SYSTEM</b> – The darkness <em> writhes. </em> It digs its claws into your flesh like a panicked animal, worming its tentacles into your mouth, your nose, your eyes—</p><p><b>YOU</b> - You scream, only to be smothered. You struggle, only to be pinned down. </p><p><b>ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN</b> – Don’t you see, brother man? We’re helping you. We’re <em> protecting </em> you. </p><p><b>LIMBIC SYSTEM</b> – We’re stopping you from walking through THAT door.</p><p><b>ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN</b> - The Third Door. </p><p>The Final Door.</p><p> </p><p><b>YOU</b> – There’s nothing, nothing except the darkness <em> you can’t breathe </em> there’s nothing nothing <em> nothing </em>—</p><p><b>ESPRIT DE CORPS</b> - A hand grabs your collar, pulling, heaving you out of the black ocean—</p><p><b>YOU</b> – You open your eyes.</p><p><b>INLAND EMPIRE</b> – A gloved hand. A pale forearm. An orange sleeve with a white, reflective rectangle sewn onto the shoulder.</p><p>A halo, radiant as the sun, wreathes his head.</p><p> </p><p><b>KIM KITSURAGI </b>– “Sunrise, parabellum.”</p><p> </p><p><b>YOU</b> – With the desperation of the dying, you reach out and—</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><b>YOU </b>- You wake up with a gasp.</p><p><b>INLAND EMPIRE </b>- Your cheeks are wet; your clothes are soaked; your lungs are burning, as if someone had pushed your head under black water and held it there until you drowned.</p><p><b>COMPOSURE</b> [Impossible: Failure] - Don’t be silly. You were just crying in your sleep, that’s all.</p><p><b>HALF-LIGHT</b> [Easy: Success] - A hulking behemoth roars past your left, rattling your teeth, your bones, the windows of your car—</p><p><b>YOU</b> - Car? Where...where am I?</p><p> </p><p><b>SHIVERS</b> [Medium: Success] – Snowflakes fall like broken glass from the shattered dome of the sky. A few land on the windshield of a Coupris ’40 parked on the shoulder of the 8/81. Within it, a cop shivers from the cold.</p><p><b>PAIN THRESHOLD</b> - A feverish chill pulses through the aching meat of your body. Your head throbs. </p><p><b>ENDURANCE</b> [Heroic: Failure] – That power nap did jack shit. It should be <em> illegal </em> to feel this tired after waking up.</p><p><b>INLAND EMPIRE</b> - Your second nightmare in two nights. You only remember fragments of it: A shimmering disco ball. Forget-me-nots wilting in a vase. Deep, devouring darkness...</p><p>His face, smiling. </p><p> </p><p><b>JULES PIDIEU</b> – The crackle of static startles you from your thoughts. </p><p>“Detective Du Bois, Detective Du Bois. Do you copy? Over.”</p><p><b>REACTION SPEED </b>[Medium: Success] - Oldboy. You heard him in your dream. </p><p><b>LOGIC</b> [Legendary: Failure] - You asked him to check something before you took a nap. But what was it?</p><p><b>JULES PIDIEU </b>– “He’s not picking up,” he says to someone else in the background. “Alright. I’ll try again.” He sighs. “Detective Du Bois. Come in please. Over.”</p><p><b>VOLITION</b> - Pull your shit together and answer the damn radio. </p><p> </p><p><b>YOU </b>– You swipe up the receiver and press the talk bar.</p><p>“10-2 (Receiving Well), 10-4 (Message Received). Sorry to keep you waiting, Oldboy. Just woke up from a nap. Over.”</p><p><b>PAIN THRESHOLD </b>– If that hellscape was a nap, then being boiled alive is a nice, warm shower.</p><p><b>JULES PIDIEU</b> - “10-4, sir. Glad to hear you’re okay. 10-20 (Location)? Over.”</p><p><b>YOU</b> - “Emergency stop in the 8-81.” You peer out of the windshield and try to make out the interchange sign. “Just about to exit to Martinaise. Over.”</p><p> </p><p><b>JULES PIDIEU</b> - He speaks to his hidden interlocutor again. “He’s heading to Martinaise.” A pause. Then, “10-4, sir. Are you headed back for that 10-53? Over.”</p><p><b>ENCYCLOPEDIA</b> [Trivial: Success] –  In ten code, 10-53 means Fatal Vehicular Accident.</p><p><b>LOGIC</b> [Easy: Success] - He’s referring to the case that you’re looking into.</p><p><b>REACTION SPEED</b> [Challenging: Success] – That’s it! You asked Oldboy to look into one of the victims. Lelystad Kortanaer. </p><p> </p><p><b>YOU </b>– “Affirmative. There’s some loose ends I need to tie up back there. Did you dig up anything on that stiff I asked you about? Over.”</p><p><b>JULES PIDIEU</b> – “Affirmative, sir. But, uh…” He coughs. “The captain would like to speak to you about that. Personally. Over.”</p><p><b>REACTION SPEED</b> – Captain? Did he just say captain?</p><p><b>ESPRIT DE CORPS</b> [Easy: Success] – Stolid and indomitable, Captain Ptolemaios Pryce is the current leader of Precinct 41. Dressed in somber RCM black, he stands behind Oldboy in the Communications Desk and glowers at the microphone. </p><p><b>EMPATHY</b> [Formidable: Success] - He does not look happy. </p><p> </p><p><b>COMPOSURE </b>- Nothing to worry about. The captain probably just wants to check up on you, ask for updates on the case. </p><p><b>LOGIC</b> - Or ask you why you ditched your injured partner. </p><p><b>VOLITION</b> [Challenging: Success] - You’re delaying the inevitable. He’s upset; you’re in trouble. So let’s just get this over with. </p><p> </p><p><b>YOU</b> – “10-4. Put him on, Oldboy. Over.”</p><p><b>EMPATHY</b> - After working with Ptolemy Pryce for eighteen years, you have earned the privilege of calling him a friend. Still, you always  feel like a little boy getting called into the principal’s office whenever he talks to you.</p><p><b>COMPOSURE</b> [Challenging: Failure] - Shit. Are your nails trimmed? Shoes shined? What if he calls your <em> mother</em>???</p><p> </p><p><b>JULES PIDIEU </b>– “10-4. 10-3 (Standby).”</p><p><b>PERCEPTION (HEARING)</b> - Shuffling as two bodies maneuver around each other in a cramped room. A chair creaks with alarm as 82.3 kilograms of battle-scarred muscle (and 25 grams of steel-rimmed spectacles) settles into it. </p><p><b>PTOLEMY PRYCE</b> – “Morning, Harrier. I hope you have a good reason for abandoning your injured partner at the hospital. Over.”</p><p><b>LOGIC</b> – Called it!</p><p> </p><p><b>ESPRIT DE CORPS</b> - The RCM is a brotherhood. Once an officer is assigned to a partner, they’re expected to take bullets for each other, to stick with their partner till the bitter end. </p><p>You broke this sacred rule when you left Jean in the hospital. </p><p><b>SUGGESTION </b>- Thankfully, you have a good reason for doing that!</p><p><b>RHETORIC</b> - Sorry, but, “I ditched my partner because I want to redeem myself in the eyes of a man whom I just met four days ago and who happens to be affiliated with organized crime,” doesn’t sound like a very good reason. </p><p><b>DRAMA </b>- As always, sire: When in doubt, lie. </p><p><b>SUGGESTION</b> – Are you kidding? The captain’s bullshit detector is second to none.</p><p><b>DRAMA</b> – Ahem! Second to <em> one </em>.</p><p> </p><p><b>PTOLEMY PRYCE</b> – “Tell you voices to pipe down, Mullen. I can hear them talking over the shortwave. Over.”</p><p><b>RHETORIC</b> [Medium: Success] - He can’t really hear us talking. But he does want you to answer him <em> now </em>. </p><p><b>YOU</b> – “10-4. Voices have been piped down. And I didn’t abandon Vic, captain. Trant’s there with him, and the doctors said he was out of danger. Over.”</p><p><b>DRAMA</b> – Thus far, Lt. Vicquemare and Special Consultant Heidelstam have managed to keep their relationship a secret from your colleagues. But knowing the captain, he probably has an idea of what’s going on between them.</p><p><b>EMPATHY </b>– The fact that he hasn’t said anything about it speaks of the captain’s admirable capacity for discretion. </p><p><b>VOLITION</b> - Or his staunch refusal to poke his nose into his subordinates’ personal affairs. </p><p> </p><p><b>PTOLEMY PRYCE</b> – “10-4. But even if his condition is stable, you’re still not allowed to go solo on a case without official clearance. Over.”</p><p><b>RHETORIC</b> [Trivial: Success] – Without <em> his </em> official clearance, to be specific.</p><p><b>SUGGESTION </b>– This is going to be a tough sell. Eat some humble pie to soften him up. </p><p><b>YOU</b> – “10-4. Sorry ‘bout that, Cap. Slipped my mind. Over.”</p><p><b>SUGGESTION </b>[Legendary: Failure] – The captain’s silence is skeptical. He does not buy your bullshit.</p><p> </p><p><b>PTOLEMY PRYCE</b> – “I see. Good thing I reminded you about it then,” he says drily. “10-19. I want you back at the precinct. 10-18 (Immediately). Over.”</p><p><b>REACTION SPEED</b> [Challenging: Failure] – Wait. What?</p><p><b>YOU</b> – “10-9. Come again, sir? Over.”</p><p><b>PTOLEMY PRYCE</b> – “You heard what I said. 10-19 (Return to the Station). That’s an order. Over.”</p><p><b>AUTHORITY</b> - A direct order from your commanding officer. Disobedience would entail insubordination—a grave sin against the code of honor.</p><p><b>VOLITION</b> - But you can’t go back. Not until you’ve solved this case. Not until you’ve cleared things up with Kim. </p><p><b>YOU </b>– “Sir, I don’t think I can—”</p><p><b>PTOLEMY PRYCE</b> – He cuts you off. “You can, and you will." A hiss of static. Then, "I’m taking you off the case, Harrier.”</p><p> </p><p><b>COMPOSURE </b>– An iron fist rams into your gut. </p><p><b>LOGIC</b> [Legendary: Failure] - No. This...This can’t be right—</p><p><b>ESPRIT DE CORPS</b> - Captain Pryce is not prone to making mistakes. The RCM wouldn’t have survived this long, if he was.  </p><p> </p><p><b>PTOLEMY PRYCE</b> – Heedless of your shock, he continues.</p><p>“The boys at Faubourg managed to ID the corpses Vic dropped off. They’re besmertie bosses.” A pause. “The Mazda’s. Over.”</p><p><b>REACTION SPEED</b> [Formidable: Success] - The rings that you found on those dead bodies. Identical brass rings, engraved with the letter M. </p><p><b>LOGIC</b> - And if those two are Kim’s siblings, then—</p><p> </p><p><b>INLAND EMPIRE</b> - “You don’t know me, Harry,” he murmurs with a shake of his head. “You don’t know what I’ve done.”</p><p><b>SHIVERS</b> - A rat skitters through an empty building. It stops, stands on its hind legs, and sniffs the air. The walls are pockmarked with bullets and smeared with rust-red splatters. Sensing no danger, the rat scurries to the nearest corpse and starts to feast.</p><p> </p><p><b>ENDURANCE </b>- Bile crawls up your throat. You swallow it down. </p><p><b>YOU</b> - “I...I know who they were, sir. Over.”</p><p><b>PTOLEMY PRYCE</b> - The captain’s voice registers no surprise. “Then you should know that the last thing the RCM needs is to start a turf war with the most powerful criminal organization in Revachol.” </p><p><b>AUTHORITY </b>- What’s this? The mighty Ptolemy Pryce, cowering in the face of some criminal scum?</p><p><b>HALF-LIGHT</b> - That “criminal scum” has enough firepower to wipe out the entire RCM in a day. Maybe even sooner, if they really put their heart into it. </p><p><b>PTOLEMY PRYCE</b> - A strange sound rustles through the shortwave.</p><p><b>EMPATHY</b> - The sigh of a man bearing the weight of the world on his shoulders. </p><p><b>PTOLEMY PRYCE</b> - “Harry. If the besmerties want to tear each other to pieces, that’s up to them.” His voice hardens to steel. “But I am <em> not </em> willing to lose my best man in the crossfire. Over.”</p><p> </p><p><b>RHETORIC </b>- He means you, of course. </p><p><b>ESPRIT DE CORPS</b> [Challenging: Success] – Like every other officer of the RCM, Pryce keeps a ledger of his own. In many respects, it is identical to everyone else’s: The same blue, U-4 sized board, the same documents held together by the same rectangular metal clip. But unlike other ledgers, the perforations around the Captain’s clip do not signify cases, but casualties. Officers--those who have fallen in the line of duty. Under his watch. </p><p><b>EMPATHY</b> - He remembers all of their names. And those of their widows and orphans, too.   </p><p>He does not want to add your name to that list.</p><p> </p><p><b>COUPRIS ’40</b> – Anemic sunlight filters through the windows, casting the interior of your motor carriage in a pale, shadowless gray. A small red eye stares at you from the radio panel on the dashboard.</p><p><b>VOLITION</b> - What are you going to do?</p><p><b>YOU</b> - …I don’t know.</p><p> </p><p><b>HALF-LIGHT </b>- The captain is right. This is a suicide mission—marching back into enemy territory alone, with no one to watch your back. </p><p><b>VISUAL CALCULUS </b>[Formidable: Success] - If the Mazda sends in reinforcements to Martinaise, then your chances of survival are slim. Around 10%. Maybe even less. </p><p><b>YOU</b> - ...Hey, VC.</p><p>What are <em> his </em> chances?</p><p> </p><p><b>VISUAL CALCULUS</b> - What do you mean?</p><p><b>YOU</b> - What are Kim’s chances of survival? If I don’t go?</p><p><b>VISUAL CALCULUS</b> - ...That’s—</p><p> </p><p><b>INLAND EMPIRE</b> [Legendary: Success] - The naked body of a man dangles from the tree in the Whirling’s Backyard. A bright yellow cargo twists its neck at an unnatural angle. Below its black-toed feet, the mangled remains of a pair of round spectacles lie in a pool of blood. </p><p><b>ENCYCLOPEDIA</b> - Besmertie justice is not always fair. But it is always terminal.</p><p> </p><p><b>PTOLEMY PRYCE </b>- The radio crackles to life again. </p><p>“Talk to me, Du Bois. I’ve worked with you long enough to know that I should always be worried when you’re quiet. Over.”</p><p><b>EMPATHY</b> - He’s right--he <em> should </em>be worried. </p><p><b>VOLITION</b> - Because you’re planning on doing something really, really stupid. </p><p> </p><p><b>YOU </b>- Fingers numb, you lift the receiver to your mouth and press the talk bar. </p><p>“Sorry, Cap. But I can’t go back.”</p><p><b>REACTION SPEED</b> - You forgot to say over.</p><p><b>VOLITION</b> - Do you give a shit about that anymore? No. No, you don’t.</p><p> </p><p><b>PERCEPTION (HEARING)</b> - A faint rustling sound reaches your ears. As if someone were massaging the bridge of their nose, or their temples. </p><p><b>PTOLEMY PRYCE</b> - “Alright, Harry,” he sighs. “Who is it?”</p><p><b>RHETORIC</b> [Heroic: Failure] - Sorry, didn’t catch that. </p><p><b>YOU</b> - “Who’s what?”</p><p><b>PTOLEMY PRYCE</b> – “There’s someone you’re trying to save, isn’t there? They’re the reason why you’re going back to Martinaise. Why you left Jean at the hospital. Why you’re risking a court martial for insubordination.”</p><p><b>RHETORIC</b> – Damn, he’s good!</p><p><b>LOGIC</b> - Human Can Opener, meet the Human X-Ray.</p><p><b>ESPRIT DE CORPS</b> – If there were more than one Captain Pryce in Revachol, they’d manage to overthrow the Moralintern and establish a more-or-less functioning government in less than a year.</p><p><b>INLAND EMPIRE</b> [Heroic: Success] – Who’s to say that won’t happen with just one of him? </p><p> </p><p><b>YOU</b> - “You got me, Cap. I’m off to save a damsel in distress.”</p><p><b>RHETORIC</b> - Except Kim’s not a damsel, but a <em> dude </em> in distress. </p><p><b>DRAMA</b> - And you, the noble hero of this tale, are galloping back to the treacherous land of Martinaise on your trusty motor carriage to save your beloved dude! </p><p> </p><p><b>PTOLEMY PRYCE</b> - “Harry, for Dolores’ sake—”</p><p><b>SUGGESTION</b> [Heroic: Success] - Time to bring out the big guns!</p><p><b>YOU</b> – “Cap—No, Ptolemy.”</p><p><b>PTOLEMY PRYCE</b> - He halts midsentence.</p><p><b>RHETORIC</b> - But he won’t stay quiet for long. Quick, make your case!</p><p><b>YOU</b> - “Look. This is going to sound crazy, but—”</p><p> </p><p><b>SUGGESTION</b> – “I’m going back to save this guy whom I met four days ago—”</p><p><b>INLAND EMPIRE</b> – “—whom I happen to know from a parallel universe where I was a complete failure of a human being.”</p><p><b>ELECTROCHEMISTRY</b> – “Oh, and I’ve fallen for him too. We would’ve gotten to third base last night if we didn’t find Jean unconscious and bleeding in this guy’s living room.”</p><p><b>LOGIC</b> – Yes. That <em>definitely</em> sounds crazy.</p><p> </p><p><b>YOU</b> - Your hand trembles around the receiver. </p><p>“—but I won’t be able to forgive myself if I don’t go.”</p><p><b>INLAND EMPIRE </b>[Heroic: Success] - He will come to you every night—a spectre, clad in nothing but blood and bruises. He will trail muddy footprints through the halls of your mind, touch your cheek with corpse-cold fingers and whisper: </p><p>“Why did you run away, Harry?”</p><p> </p><p><b>PTOLEMY PRYCE</b> - A long silence descends over the radio. </p><p><b>ESPRIT DE CORPS</b> - In the small, smoky Communications Desk of Precinct 41, Captain Ptolemy Pryce steeples his fingers and ponders your answer. The light from the control panel glints off his glasses, hiding his eyes. Behind him, Jules Pidieu takes a nervous drag from his third cigarette for the day. </p><p>Then, like a grandmaster conceding the loss of a rook, Pryce nods.</p><p> </p><p><b>PTOLEMY PRYCE</b> - “Tomorrow noon,” he says. “If we don’t hear from you by then, I’m sending in a riot team to Martinaise to extract you.”</p><p><b>RHETORIC</b> [Challenging: Success] - He would greatly prefer to extract you alive.</p><p><b>YOU</b> - You glance at your watch. </p><p><b>LOGIC</b> - Shit. That’s just 24 hours from now. </p><p><b>EMPATHY</b> - The captain’s already being generous. He would have sent in the team tonight, if he had his way. </p><p><b>YOU</b> - So why doesn’t he?</p><p><b>ESPRIT DE CORPS</b> [Formidable: Success] - Because he trusts you. </p><p> </p><p><b>YOU</b> - Now it’s your turn to be silent. </p><p><b>PERCEPTION</b> - A lorry with the FALN logo emblazoned on its side roars down the highway. Motor carriages trail after it like minnows following a shark. </p><p><b>INLAND EMPIRE</b> - All of humanity, hurtling towards destinations both known and unknown. </p><p>It is time for you to join them. </p><p> </p><p><b>YOU </b>- “10-4. I’ll crack this case wide open before those riot boys can put their boots on. Over.”</p><p><b>PTOLEMY PRYCE </b>- “Fuck the case, Harrier,” he says, voice clipped. “Just save your fucking damsel and get your stubborn ass out of there. Over.”</p><p><b>COMPOSURE</b> - Now this is the Ptolemy Pryce that you know and sometimes love.</p><p><b>YOU</b> - You grin. “10-4. Save the damsel, get my ass out of there. Over.”</p><p> </p><p><b>PTOLEMY PRYCE</b> - His chair creaks as he leans back into it. </p><p>“What am I going to do with you, Du Bois?” </p><p><b>EMPATHY</b> [Medium: Success] - An odd mix of exasperation, exhaustion, and fondness. </p><p><b>RHETORIC</b> [Easy: Success] - Do you want to be a smart-ass?</p><p><b>YOU </b>- Sure. Why not.</p><p>“You could try promoting me to Captain. But I’ll probably say no again.”</p><p><b>PTOLEMY PRYCE </b> - He scoffs. “Lieutenant <em> Triple </em>-Yefreitor Du Bois? Not if you keep pulling off crazy stunts like this, my friend.” </p><p>He goes quiet. Then...</p><p>“Don’t get killed, Harry.”</p><p> </p><p><b>HALF-LIGHT</b> - No promises. </p><p><b>YOU</b> - “Roger that, Cap. Over and out.”</p><p><b>PTOLEMY PRYCE</b> - The wry smirk on his face travels over the shortwave. </p><p>“Over and out.”</p><p>The line goes dead. </p><p> </p><p><b>ESPRIT DE CORPS</b> [Medium: Success] - His face weary, Captain Pryce removes his headset and stares at the microphone for a few moments. </p><p>“Call the C-Wing, Oldboy,” he eventually says. “We’re heading to Martinaise tomorrow.”</p><p> </p><p><b>YOU</b> - Dead silence rings out in your motor carriage. It’s just you and the world now.  </p><p><b>VOLITION</b> - The clock’s ticking. It’s time to go.</p><p><b>YOU</b> - You take a deep breath and let it out slowly. </p><p>Then, like a bullet fired from a gun, you release the handbrake, pull out of the curb, and hurtle towards Martinaise. </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thank you for your patience, everyone! I've had my hands full with several DE-related projects recently, but rest assured that I'm committed to seeing this baby monster through. :)</p><p>Shout-out to <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lepak/pseuds/Lepak">Lepak</a> and <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/kronkinator/pseuds/kronkinator">Kronk</a> for helping me sketch out Captain Pryce's personality!</p><p>Next chapter: A cafeteria manager gets to watch a real detective at work.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0018"><h2>18. The Detective (Part Two)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It’s a slow afternoon in the Whirling-in-Rags. Customers arrive in ones or twos, heads flecked with frost, faces scoured red by the wind. They walk up to the counter and study the menu as if it were a sacred text, one that promises a future filled with steaming coffee and greasy sausages. Garte relays their petitions to the kitchen, where ol’ Kubek grants them like a kindly god. Coffees are sipped. Sausages are savored. The customers sigh happily and eat their meals in silence.</p><p>Garte doesn’t know how to feel about this. On the one hand, this is bizarre. Lunch hour at the Whirling is usually a warzone—He should be dashing between tables, dodging insults, jotting down orders, juggling trays of food, and getting yelled at for being too slow. Not drying mugs with a dishrag while humming an Etenniers song under his breath. </p><p>On the other hand, this is great. The first real break that he’s had in three days, which have literally been the shittiest days of his life. Last Tuesday, he walked into the men’s bathroom and found a massive—no, <em> gargantuan</em>—turd coiled up in one of the toilets. He wrestled with it for an hour, a bucket-and-plunger-wielding knight battling against a dragon of dung. He succeeded, eventually. But only after losing his sense of smell and his desire to keep living.   </p><p>So yes. Garte’s grateful for a quiet afternoon. If the snow doesn’t let up, he might even have a quiet evening, which would be bad for revenue, but excellent for his sanity. Maybe he should call up Sylvie. Ask her how she’s doing. Check if she needs anything from Frittte...</p><p>The door opens. Another straggler enters, accompanied by a frigid gust of air.</p><p> </p><p>A bottle of nosaphed or two would be nice, Garte thinks, too engrossed with his plan to pay attention to anything else. Or maybe—he gasps—Kubek’s special borscht! Of course! He’ll have to tell the old man to ease up on the vodka, but other than that, it’ll be the perfect gift for a flu-stricken employee-slash-(<em>khm!</em>) love interest.</p><p>“<em>Oh, Larry </em> ,” Sylvie will say when he shows up at her doorstep with a tumbler of hot borscht and a Frittte bag of nosaphed, “<em>you’re such a sweet—</em>”</p><p>“Morning!”</p><p>Sylvie vanishes. The mug flies from Garte’s hands, rolls off the counter, and plummets to the floor<em> — </em></p><p>He almost doesn’t catch it.</p><p> </p><p>“That was close!” the customer’s voice echoes through the roar of blood in Garte’s ears. “Sorry. Guess I should’ve used the bell, huh?”</p><p>With the slow, deliberate manner of a man who is gearing up for the momentous act of losing his shit, Garte stands up, places the mug on the counter, and says, “Yes. You <em> should </em>have used the bell, you son of a—”</p><p>The customer smiles.</p><p>“...Oh.” Garte clears his throat. “Good morning. Officer.”</p><p> </p><p>The detective—the weird one, not the sane one—continues smiling. His face is gaunt. His eyes are bloodshot. His smile is that of an axe-murderer. </p><p>“Sorry again.” A blast of rancid coffee-breath rams into Garte’s nose and decimates the olfactory neurons that survived his battle with the turd-dragon. “Didn’t mean to startle you—”</p><p>“It’s alright,” Garte says, eyes watering. “How can I help you?”</p><p>“Couple of things, actually,” The cop fishes something out of his pocket and puts it on the counter. “My partner’s got some business back in Jamrock, so he won’t be staying here anymore. It’s just gonna be lil’ ol’ me from now on.”</p><p>The room key gleams like the barrel of a gun. And Garte wishes, with all his heart, that he could have been stuck with Sane Cop instead.</p><p>“I...see.” Then, he spots the number “2” on the keyring, and frowns. “Hold on. Isn’t this <em> your </em>key?”</p><p> </p><p>“Hm? Oh, I was hoping I could move to his room,” Weird Cop says. “It’s bigger than mine, and that record player looks <em> really </em> disco. Nothing like some O.O. to get the sleuthing juices pumping, eh?”</p><p>Garte has no idea what “sleuthing juices” are, or what they have to do with Ostentatious Orchestrations. But he totally understands why this guy would want to switch rooms—Room 1’s the second-best room in the house, after all. A definite upgrade from the broom closet called Room 2.</p><p>“Of course. I prefer The Etienners myself, but O.O. is pretty...” The lie passes through his throat like a verbal kidney stone. “...<em> disco </em> too. Let me know when you’re done moving and I’ll clean up Room 2. Is there anything else?”</p><p> </p><p>Weird Cop glances over his shoulder. The other patrons are too busy remembering what it’s like to be warm again to eavesdrop on their conversation. “Just one more thing.” He leans towards Garte, who backs away to avoid another wave of coffee-breath. “I was wondering if I could have a look at Room 3. As part of the...<em>investigation</em>.”</p><p>That last word is accompanied by a complex waggling of eyebrows, which Garte fails to interpret due to the cold fist that seizes his guts. </p><p>“What?!” Heads swivel towards them. Garte winces and lowers his voice. “I’m sorry, officer. But I run a clean establishment here, and last time I checked, the RCM doesn’t do search warrants. So you’re going to have to tell me exactly why you think that room’s related to your <em> investigation</em>,” he mimics the detective’s eyebrow semaphore, “before I even <em> think </em>about letting you in there.”</p><p> </p><p>“Woah, woah, woah,” the detective raises his hands. “Relax, Garte. I’m not sure about anything yet. But fine, we’ll take it slow.” He eyes the red ledger on the counter. “Mind if I checked your guest register?”</p><p>Garte crosses his arms. “Be my guest.”</p><p>“Oho! I see what you did there.” The detective shoots him a wink. Then, he takes the ledger. Opens it. Flips through the pages. Licks a finger. Flips more pages. Trails his finger trails down the most recent page...And stops.</p><p>“‘Scuse me, Garte,” the detective says, eyes and icky finger still glued to the page. “You told us Room 3 was occupied when we checked in. Who was staying there?”</p><p>“What's this, a surprise quiz?” Garte scowls. “Titus Hardie had that room. Oh, and before you ask. He checked in on Saturday, ordered three crates of Pale Pilsner, four packs of Royal Extra, a bottle of Commodore Red, two steak dinners, a plate of spaghetti, and checked out on Monday morning.” He smirks. “Did I miss anything?”</p><p>“Nope. Sounds about right." The detective raises up the ledger and points to the seam between the pages. “You just missed the page that was ripped out of this thing.”</p><p> </p><p>Garte’s mouth drops open.</p><p>He grabs the ledger, shoves his face into it, and sees the tiny, jagged teeth of paper tucked between the pages.</p><p>“I don’t know about you,” the detective says while Garte gapes at the ledger. “But I have a feeling that Mr. Hardie might have done a bit more than just order a lot of food and booze last weekend.”</p><p> </p><p>A icy lump crawls up Garte’s throat. He swallows it down.</p><p>“This proves nothing," he says. "Sylvie might have ripped it out because she made a mistake. A wrong sum. Or—”</p><p>“If Sylvie made a mistake, she could have just struck it out. That’s what she usually does, right?”</p><p>“Yes," Garte says. "But...how did you know that?”</p><p>The detective shrugs. “Saw it in the past entries. Anyway.” He takes the ledger from Garte’s sweaty hands and flips to the most recent page. “Mr. Hardie’s reservation starts here—” He points to the bottom-left. “—and ends here.” His finger crosses over to the next page. “That’s two pages. Which happens to be…”</p><p>He flips to the previous page.</p><p>“...the same number of pages that were ripped out."</p><p> </p><p>Garte studies the ledger again. And just like the detective said, there's not one, but two, sets of jagged shreds running down the seam.</p><p>The icy lump restarts its trek up his pharynx.</p><p> </p><p>"Whoever did it tried to be real careful too," Weird Cop says. "So either Sylvie made two pages’ worth of mistakes, or—”</p><p>“Or she’s trying to hide something," Garte says, voice trembling like a fledgling Skua. “Officer. I...I didn’t know about this. I swear. If I did, I would’ve—”</p><p>“It’s alright, Garte.” Those all-seeing eyes scan the pale page of his face. “I believe you.”</p><p> </p><p>Metal screeches against linoleum. A customer—the only one left from the pitiful lunch crowd—lets out a massive belch and makes his way out.</p><p>The detective waits for the door to swing shut.</p><p>“Would you mind answering a few questions?”</p><p> </p><p>Garte dabs his forehead with his handkerchief. It comes away wet. “Of course. You have my full cooperation.” He glances at the open ledger, where the blue swirls of Sylvie’s handwriting condemn his betrayal.</p><p>Weird Cop reaches into his coat and pulls out a ledger of his own, and for some reason, the first thought that enters Garte’s mind is, “<em>You can bust someone’s kneecaps with that thing</em>.” A dark-blue plastic clipboard, the letters “RCM” embossed on the back, forms the base of the ledger. A rectangular metal block runs along the width of the board, a multi-colored flock of papers clamped within its alligator jaws. The whole thing looks like a layered cake—a layered cake of <em> crime </em>. </p><p>...On second thought, it looks more like a lasagna, Garte thinks. A lasagna of <em> crime </em> —No, a lasagna of <em> justice </em>.</p><p>As Garte tries to come up with more food metaphors for the ledger, the detective plucks a nubby pencil from the clip, poises it over a fresh page, and starts pelting him with questions.</p><p> </p><p>“When did Sylvie call in sick?”  </p><p>“Sunday night,” Garte says. The pencil goes <em> skritch-skritch-skritch </em>across the page. “She called me at around midnight. Told me she wasn’t feeling well.”</p><p>“And you believed her?”</p><p>Blood rushes to Garte’s cheeks. “Yes. Her voice sounded all stuffy. I thought she had a cold, because of the weather. She’s never—” A tumbler of borscht spills in his mind and scalds his heart. “She’s never done this before. Lie to me, I mean.”</p><p>The detective’s face softens. “I see.” <em> Skritch-skritch</em>. “How long has she been working here?”</p><p>“Two years. She used to be the weekend bartender. Then our waiter resigned, and she offered to take the job. Said she needed the extra cash to save up for art school.”</p><p>“Art school?”</p><p>“Yes. You know, the place where young people go to learn the fine art of being unemployed.” Garte winces. “Sorry. That came out wrong.”</p><p>The detective's humorless smirk tells Garte that there’s no way that line could have sounded right. “I’m surprised, Garte. You struck me as a man of culture.” He gestures around the room. “‘Whirling in Rags,’ the stuffed Skua, the pre-revolutionary tilework...”</p><p>“Sure, I like art. But I can’t eat pre-revolutionary tilework, or pay my bills with stuffed birds now, can I?" Garte shrugs. "Practicality always wins, officer.”</p><p> </p><p>The detective’s eyebrows converge above his nose bridge to discuss Garte’s utilitarianism. Eventually, they reach two conclusions: First, he’s wrong; and second, arguing with him would be a waste of time. They part amicably.</p><p>“Going back to Sylvie.” The pencil hovers over a new line. “Do you think she’s cute?”</p><p>Garte chokes on his own spit.</p><p>“What—” he sputters, after hacking and coughing like a consumptive who just swallowed both of his lungs. “What the hell are you asking that for???”</p><p>The detective glances at his face, then at his neck. </p><p>“I'll take that as a yes.” The almighty pencil records Lawrence Garte’s crush on Sylvie Malalaika on official RCM documentation. “You mentioned that she’s never lied to you before?”</p><p>“Yes,” Garte says, face still burning. “She’s a dependable girl—notes everything down in the ledger, and she always gives back the right amount of change, down to the last centim. It’s one of the reasons why I hired her.”</p><p>“The other reasons being...?” The detective’s face is more innocent than Dolores fucking Dei, while Garte’s burns ten degrees hotter.</p><p>“The fact that she volunteered for the goddamned job. Can we <em> please </em>talk about something else?” he groans.</p><p> </p><p>Thankfully, the detective abandons his gleeful assault on Garte’s love life and proceeds with the interrogation.</p><p>“Titus Hardie. What can you tell me about him?”</p><p>Garte isn’t sure if he feels relieved or scared shitless by this new line of questioning. “Typical tough guy. Big. Loud. Dangerous. He and his men hang around here in the afternoons.” He jerks a thumb at the closed Union booth. “Pays his tab on time, though. Always puts in big orders too.”</p><p>“I see. And would you say that he’s a law-abiding citizen?”</p><p>Garte scoffs. "Are you kidding? He<em> is </em>the law around here. The RCM hasn't set foot in Martinaise for years. If it weren't for the Hardie Boys, this whole place would've gone to the dogs a long time ago."</p><p>“Fair enough.” <em>Skritch-skritch-skritch</em>. “Does he get along with Sylvie?”</p><p>“Probably? I can’t say for sure. But Sylvie’s a nice girl—”</p><p>Weird Cop grins, and Garte regrets his decision to cooperate with the law. “—And from what I’ve heard," he continues, "Titus is pretty popular around here. I wouldn’t be surprised if they got along.”</p><p> </p><p>“Interesting...” The detective’s face lights up. “Wait. My partner and I bumped into a couple of guys here last Monday. A blonde named Glen and another guy wearing a cap. Was that Titus?”</p><p>“The one and only," Garte says. “He checked out a few hours after you left, too.”</p><p>The pencil freezes mid-scribble. </p><p>“Say that again?” </p><p>“He...checked out?” Garte repeats, puzzled by the detective’s sudden stillness. “They stayed in the room for around two hours before they…” A pilot light of realization flickers in his brain, “checked...out…”</p><p> </p><p>He and the detective stare at each other. Meanwhile, the pilot light ignites an oily puddle of dread and explodes into a blaze of anxiety.</p><p>“But the room was normal!” he exclaims. “I went up there myself! There were beer cans on the table, not some—” he gestures vaguely, "—dead, chopped-up body."</p><p>Weird Cop sighs. “Let me guess: The towels were on the floor, and the bed was all messy too.”</p><p>“Yeah. That's right.”</p><p>"Would've been strange if you found the room spick-and-span, so they left you some trash to clean up." The cop taps his pencil against the ledger. "Do you remember anything else? Like...Stuff they left behind. Or a strange smell in the air."</p><p> </p><p>Garte's about to answer no. Suddenly, his last remaining olfactory neuron zaps something to his brain. A memory of a smell. Potent. Acrid... </p><p>"Now that you mention it. It did smell funny in there," he says.</p><p>The detective waits for him to continue. </p><p>"Bleach," Garte says. "It smelled like bleach." </p><p> </p><p>The lasagna of justice smacks against the counter. Garte and his mugs fly into the air.</p><p>“I knew it!” The detective beams. “You know what this means, right?!”</p><p><em> It means that I’m neck-deep in some truly magnificent shit</em>, Garte thinks as his heart crawls down from his throat.</p><p>“Blood, Garte.” The cop's grin turns into a knife. “You use bleach to clean up blood--"</p><p>"Or vomit."</p><p>"...Or vomit," the detective acknowledges. "Which is why we need to go up there and check it out ourselves."</p><p> </p><p>Garte frowns.</p><p>“Wait a minute. ‘We’???”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>After putting up the “CLOSED” sign on the door, telling Kubek to make two batches of borscht (a non-alcoholic one for Sylvie, and an extra-alcoholic one for himself), and, at Weird Cop’s insistence, checking out the storeroom to count how many spare mattresses they have (one, when there’s supposed to be two), Garte stands in front of the door to Room 3 and wonders what the hell he’s doing here. </p><p> </p><p>“I could check out the room myself, but I’d appreciate having some back-up,” Weird Cop had said earlier. </p><p><em> Back-up for what</em>? Garte wondered, before he realized that he didn’t really want to know the answer to that question.</p><p>The cop must have sensed his hesitation, because what he said next sealed Garte's fate.</p><p>“Come on, Garte," he whined. "Aren’t you even a <em> little </em>curious to know what really happened up there?”</p><p> </p><p>The key burns a hole in Garte's palm. Behind him, the detective's practically vibrating with excitement, which Garte would've found annoying, if he weren't scared shitless right now. </p><p>“Uh. You okay, Garte?" the detective asks. "You look a bit pale."</p><p>“I’m fine,” he says. His heart pounds against his ribcage. “Let’s get this over with.”</p><p>Then, before he can change his mind and run away screaming, he shoves the key into the lock and opens the door.</p><p> </p><p>To his vast relief (and mild disappointment), the room looks exactly as he left it last Monday. The floor is clean. The lounge chairs are empty. The desk is bare. No blood, no corpses, no knife-wielding maniacs hiding under the table. Just a nice, clean room with the ghostly scent of bleach lingering in the air…</p><p>The detective sniffs. “Still there, huh?” He steps into the room reverently, as if he were entering a church instead of a potential crime scene, and sweeps his searchlight-gaze across the room. “Nice place. Must be pretty popular with the guests.”</p><p>Garte's chest swells with pride. “That’s right. You're standing in the best room in the house. Decorated it myself, too.”</p><p>The cop glances at him, smirking. “See? You’re an artist after all.”</p><p> </p><p>Now, Garte's read enough Dick Mullen novels to know how crime scene investigations work. The detective—who's always tall, dark, and handsome—takes out a magnifying glass and looks for clues. When he finds one (and he'll <em> always</em>, always find one), he'll go, "What do we have here?" That's Garte's cue to scuttle over and oooh and aaah over the evidence while the detective explains, in great detail, how this lock of hair/scrap of cloth/speck of dust proves that the murderer is none other than...</p><p>The detective will pause dramatically.</p><p>...The cook. (Cue lightning flash.) <em> Gorący Kubek </em>!</p><p>Garte will gasp.</p><p>"No!!! That <em>can't </em> be!"</p><p> </p><p>None of this will probably happen in real life. Weird Cop's already failed at being tall, dark, and handsome, so everything else might be a stretch. But he should <em> at least </em> have a magnifying glass—That's just mandatory.</p><p>In a complete disregard for proper fictional-detective procedure, Weird Cop doesn't pull out a magnifying glass. He doesn't even<em> walk </em> properly. Instead, he shuffles around like a care-home resident and inspects every single container in the room. The desk drawers. The ashtray. The trash can. The faux fireplace. The trashy paperbacks on the shelves. Then, when he doesn't find anything in the living area, he shuffles into the bathroom and checks everything there too. The bathtub. The sink. The medicine cabinet. The <em> other </em> trash can. And last, but not the least, the fucking toilet tank. </p><p> </p><p>“All clear,” the cop says as he plunks the lid of the toilet tank back in place. “I’m impressed! Those Hardie Boys did a great job cleaning up.”</p><p>“Impressed?!” Garte says. “They threw out all the evidence!!!”</p><p>“It’s fine. I didn’t expect to find anything, honestly." The detective smiles wistfully. “Not if he’s got anything to do with this.”</p><p>Before Garte can ask who the hell he's talking about, Weird Cop points to the stairs and goes, "Come on. Maybe we'll find something up there."</p><p> </p><p>The bedroom looks just as clean and unremarkable as the living area. The bed is perfectly made—crisp sheets, fluffed pillows, blankets folded in a trim rectangle. A model of good housekeeping, courtesy of Lawrence Garte.</p><p>But now, as he looks at the bed that he fixed with his own hands, Garte doesn't see a bed, but a butcher's block. Bloody sheets. Slashed pillows. Blankets draped over a mangled corpse—</p><p>He looks away. Meanwhile, the detective keeps staring at the bed. As if he too, were seeing something that’s not there...</p><p>“Hello, King,” Garte hears him murmur. “Finally found your throne.”</p><p> </p><p>Weird Cop examines the bed as if it were the most valuable container in the entire building. He paces around it, studying it from every angle, noting every fold, crease, and wrinkle. He almost never blinks. And when he does, it's like seeing a camera take a snapshot. <em> Click</em>. <em> Click</em>. <em>Click</em>. </p><p>Garte shoves his hands into his armpits and stifles a shiver. It's chilly up here. Like a walk-in freezer. Or a morgue...</p><p>He shoves that thought out of his mind.</p><p> </p><p>After completing the half-circuit around the bed, the detective stands beside it and solemnly raises a finger. </p><p><em> Here it comes</em>, Garte thinks. He prepares to go oooh and aaaah.</p><p>But instead of sharing a brilliant deduction, the detective extends his arm, points to an invisible point above the pillows, traces a straight line from the bed to the window, and frowns. </p><p> </p><p>“Garte,” he says. “Did you have this window replaced recently?”</p><p>“What?” Garte walks over to join him. Their puzzled reflections frown back at them from the spotless pane of glass. “What the fuck…?” He touches the window. It’s cold as ice, and just as solid. “I didn’t...Nobody told me about this!!!”</p><p>The detective raps his knuckles against the glass. “Know any window replacement businesses around here?”</p><p>“I…” Garte pauses to take a deep breath. His blood pressure goes down. But only by a bit. “All I know is Tibbs’ window business—”</p><p>He stops. His blood pressure shoots up again.</p><p> </p><p>“Tibbs? Who's Tibbs?"</p><p>Garte inhales. Counts to three. Exhales. </p><p>“Tibbs Hardie,” he says through numb lips. “Titus’ brother.”</p><p> </p><p>The detective’s eyebrows have an emergency meeting with his hairline to discuss this crucial piece of information. </p><p>“Well, well. What a happy coincidence," he says. "So Titus Hardie rented this room, gave you a free window replacement, and even cleaned up after himself using bucketloads of beach. Sounds like the perfect guest.” </p><p><em> Or a cold-blooded murderer</em>, he doesn’t say. But Garte hears it loud and clear.</p><p> </p><p>Weird Cop studies his reflection in the window.</p><p>“Mind if we head outside, Garte? I feel like we both need some fresh air.”</p><p>To be honest, Garte would rather stay in the nice, warm murder-room. But since he does not, under any circumstances, want to stay in the nice, warm murder-room <em> alone</em>, he braces himself and follows the detective out into the snow-strewn balcony.  </p><p> </p><p>It’s not cold outside—It’s <em> goddamn fucking </em>cold. Garte’s nose immediately turns into an ice cube, along with his ears, his hands, his feet, and his Great Skua. The detective doesn't even shiver. He just marches up to the railing, shields his eyes, and points to the west. </p><p>“What’s over there, Garte?” </p><p>Garte squints. “The fishing village and the boardwalk?” He blows into his hands. It doesn't help at all. "Nothing there. Just ugly shacks and abandoned buildings."</p><p>The detective nods. His finger swivels to the north-west. “And there?”</p><p>“O-old church.” Garte’s teeth start to chatter. “Old radio tower too. H-haven’t been there myself, though.” </p><p> </p><p>"B and B-prime," the detective mutters to himself. Finally, he looks to the north, where a small, black rectangle pins down a corner of the ocean. "What's on that island?</p><p>“Abandoned c-commie fort,” Garte says, even as he tries to retract his head into his collar like a human tortoise. “Look, I have a map downstairs. Can we please go inside already???"</p><p>The detective’s eyes dart between the three locations. "Yeah, a map would be nice," he says. "Let's go."</p><p> </p><p>Garte rushes to the door. There's only one thing in his mind right now, and it's <em>borscht borschst borschst</em>—</p><p>"Wait," the detective says. "What's that?"</p><p>Frowning, Garte turns around to see Weird Cop heading for the exhaust pipes on the edge of the balcony. "What's what?" he asks, weary to the very marrow of his bones. </p><p>The cop crouches down and clears away the snow in front of the pipes. </p><p> </p><p>“Garte,” he says, without looking up. “You might want to see this.”</p><p>"What is it now?" Garte mutters under his breath as he walks over to the pipes. </p><p>He peeks over the detective's shoulder. And what he sees makes his blood run cold. </p><p> </p><p>There, half-covered in slush and obscured by the shadow of the pipes—A rust-brown smudge.</p><p>A footprint. </p><p> </p><p>The detective grins.</p><p>“Bingo.”<br/><br/><br/></p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Happy holidays, everyone! </p><p>Writing for the DE fandom is my first foray into creative writing. It's been an exhilarating journey, and I've reached the point where I feel the need to polish my skills even more. This means more drafts, more rewrites, and longer editing times for my fics. I'm still learning the craft, so there will be hits and misses. But I'm very excited to share the rest of this story with all of you, and to write it in the best way that I can. </p><p>Thank you for reading, and see you in 2021!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0019"><h2>19. The Detective (Part Three)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><b>YOU</b> - You're crouched beside the bathtub of Room 1, waiting for it to fill up with water. The air is muggy with steam. Your clothes stick to your body like a grimy second skin.</p><p><b>PERCEPTION (Smell)</b> [Medium: Success] – The cologne you put on last night hasn’t aged well. You stink of armpit and stale cigarettes. Eau de Despair.</p><p><b>INLAND EMPIRE</b> – The lighter is cool in your palm. You flick it open. Light kisses his cheeks as he leans towards you...</p><p> </p><p><b>PAIN THRESHOLD</b> [Formidable: Success] – You thrust your hand into the water. It’s hot—scalding, almost. Like thousands of lit cigarettes pressed against your flesh.</p><p><b>ENCYCLOPEDIA</b> [Medium: Success] – The ideal temperature for a warm bath is 38 degrees Celsius. Anything hotter than that will agitate your nervous system and cause a drop in blood pressure.</p><p><b>VOLITION</b> – What Pillar Bookhead means to say is: The water’s too hot. You want to take a bath, not get cooked alive.</p><p><b>YOU</b> – You add some cold water, then turn off the tap. Tendrils of steam beckon you to step into the tub.</p><p><b>AUTHORITY</b> – Cast off these rags, Honourable One. Plunge into these cleansing waters and be born anew!</p><p><b>YOU</b> – You liberate yourself from your clothing. They form a sad little pile at your feet.</p><p><b>FAILURE OF A BOW KNOT</b> – I’m sorry. I was totally useless last night. I really am just a tacky neck accessory after all...</p><p><b>YOU </b>– It’s alright, buddy. You did your best.</p><p><b>EMPATHY</b> [Easy: Success] – We all did.</p><p> </p><p><b>BATHTUB</b> - You ease yourself into water. Heat engulfs your left foot, then your entire leg, your other leg, your ass, your torso...</p><p><b>ENDURANCE</b> - All your muscles sigh with relief. You've been pushing them hard this week.</p><p><b>PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT</b> - You should be pushing them hard RIGHT NOW! The clock’s ticking, son! Get your ass moving!!! </p><p><b>ENDURANCE</b> - Stay put, bröther. You've been running on adrenaline and caffeine fumes all morning. Get some downtime now, or crash later. Your choice.</p><p> </p><p><b>BATHTUB</b> - The water is warm, like amniotic fluid. Your bone-weary body settles deeper into its embrace.</p><p><b>VOLITION</b> [Legendary: Failure] - You know what? Fuck it. The world can take care of itself for the next twenty minutes.</p><p><b>LOGIC</b> - It won't be a complete waste of time. You can review what you’ve found out so far. Piece things together.</p><p><b>ENCYCLOPEDIA </b>[Trivial: Success] - Taking a bath has been scientifically proven to promote creative thinking. You get more ideas when you’re relaxed, which is why you get your best ideas in the shower. Oh, and it releases dopamine into your system too! Knowledge is power!</p><p><b>ELECTROCHEMISTRY</b> - Speaking of dopamine, you know what would make this bath even better? Alcohol. Alcohol makes everything a <em> million </em>times better. Get that tumbler of spiked borscht that Garte gave you!</p><p><b>VOLITION</b> [Legendary: Failure] - What's this? Your body refuses to get up from the bathtub. I'm pressing all the buttons, but nothing's working. Oh well.</p><p><b>ELECTROCHEMISTRY</b> - Bullshit! Hey, Lie Detector! Call him out, will ya?!</p><p><b>DRAMA</b> - Will getting the borscht require us to step out of this blessedly warm water?</p><p><b>ELECTROCHEMISTRY</b> - Uh. Yes?</p><p><b>DRAMA</b> [Heroic: Success] - Then he's telling the truth. Now shut up and let me enjoy this bath. </p><p> </p><p><b>BATHTUB</b> - Silence falls over your mind. Tension seeps out of your muscles. You lean back and close your eyes...</p><p><b>LOGIC</b> - Would you like to go over our findings?</p><p><b>YOU</b> – You nod drowsily.</p><p><b>LOGIC</b> - From Garte's interview, you learned two things. First, Sylvie's part of the cover-up. You’ll need to call her, find out what she knows.</p><p><b>SUGGESTION</b> - She'll be skittish. Gotta play Saint Cop for that call, or else she’ll shut you out.</p><p><b>LOGIC</b> - Second, Titus Hardie and his men are also involved. At the very least, they cleaned up the crime scene. At most—</p><p><b>YOU</b> - They could be the killers.</p><p><b>LOGIC</b> - Exactly.</p><p> </p><p><b>YOU</b> - Your hand twitches beneath the water, as if grasping for a nubby pencil.</p><p><b>ELECTROCHEMISTRY</b> - Or a tumbler of vodka-borscht!</p><p><b>VOLITION</b> - Alas. Neither pencil nor tumbler are within reach. Especially the tumbler. It’s practically in a different isola right now.</p><p><b>ELECTROCHEMISTRY</b> [Heroic: Failure] – Fuck you, killjoy!</p><p><b>LOGIC</b> - Moving on. You didn't find anything in the living area of Room 3. Not surprising, given how much time the Hardie Boys had to clean it up.</p><p><b>AUTHORITY</b> – The Hardie Boys think they’re the law around here. You’ll have to correct that misconception. With force, if necessary.</p><p><b>PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT</b> – Force is <em> alway </em>s necessary with these tough-guy types. That Titus was built like a fighter. Should have decked him when you had the chance.</p><p><b>HALF LIGHT</b> – It would’ve been brutal. Bloody knuckles. Crushed noses. Knocked-out teeth.</p><p><b>PAIN THRESHOLD</b> – That’s it. You’re punching this guy the next time you see him!</p><p> </p><p><b>LOGIC </b>- As for the bedroom, you found two pieces of evidence: the new window, and the footprint on the balcony.</p><p><b>VISUAL CALCULUS</b> [Medium: Success] - The window supports the sniper-hypothesis. There is a clear trajectory between the window and the bed where King and Queen were...copulating when they died.</p><p><b>ELECTROCHEMISTRY</b> – Don’t be a prude, VC! Come on, say it: Fucking.</p><p><b>VISUAL CALCULUS</b> - ...Fucking.</p><p><b>ELECTROCHEMISTRY</b> - FUCKING!</p><p><b>VISUAL CALCULUS</b> - FUCKING!</p><p><b>ELECTROCHEMISTRY</b> - FUCKITY FUCKITY FUCK FUCK FUCKIIIIIIING!!!!</p><p><b>VISUAL CALCULUS</b> - FUCKITY FUCKITY FUCK FUCK FUCKIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIING!!!!!!!</p><p><b>LOGIC </b>– Excuse me. But can we get back to the case?</p><p> </p><p><b>VISUAL CALCULUS</b> – Oh. Khm. Right. Based on your calculations, the bullet could have come from one of four places: A-prime (the balcony), B-prime (the boardwalk), B-double-prime (Land's End), or B-triple-prime (the Islet).</p><p><b>YOU</b> – Which one’s the likeliest?</p><p><b>VISUAL CALCULUS</b> – Tough call. A-prime would have been the most probable, if it weren’t for the bloody footprint that you found.</p><p><b>LOGIC</b> – According to the autopsy report, Queen’s foot size was 37. Guess how big the footprint was.</p><p><b>YOU</b> – That doesn’t make any sense. What was she doing out there?</p><p><b>LOGIC</b> – You don’t know yet. But she probably wouldn’t have gone outside if the killer was present.</p><p><b>VISUAL CALCULUS</b> – That print was a lucky find. It would’ve been long gone if it had rained this week, or if the Hardie Boys hadn’t missed that spot. </p><p><b>AUTHORITY</b> – A boon from the Detective God, benevolent patron of all Lawbringers.</p><p>
  
</p><p><b>BATHTUB</b> – The world is silent, save for the lapping of water against the sides of the tub. Your head buzzes like a hive of bees. You are wide awake now.</p><p><b>YOU </b>– Let’s say the balcony’s out of the picture. What are the probabilities for the B-positions?</p><p><b>VISUAL CALCULUS</b> – There’s a 20% chance that it came from B-prime, the boardwalk. A skilled sniper could easily have made the shot, if the wind was in their favor.</p><p><b>SHIVERS</b> – A long-abandoned industrial building looms over the coast. Snow drifts through the open roof. A mural, its letters faded and peeling, covers one of its walls.</p><p><b>CONCEPTUALIZATION</b> – An ode to human progress, defaced by the hand of history.</p><p><b>VISUAL CALCULUS</b> – B-double-prime is the least likely, around 3%. The angle would have been too extreme. A tricky shot, even with military training.</p><p><b>SHIVERS</b> - The decrepit radio tower juts out from the shore like a rusty finger pointed at the sky. Beside it, a woman looks out at the ocean. Her yellow raincoat flaps in the breeze.</p><p><b>INLAND EMPIRE</b> - The sea beckons to her, just as it beckoned to <em> him </em>.</p><p><b>VISUAL CALCULUS</b> – Then there’s B-triple-prime at 5%. According to Garte’s map, there are several islets across the bay. The shot could have come from any of them.</p><p><b>SHIVERS</b> – Maybells blooming in spring. Snowflakes mingle with ashes in an extinguished fire pit. The old man contemplates his rifle, then puts it into his mouth. Wind skitters through the reeds. He does not pull the trigger.</p><p> </p><p><b>LOGIC</b> – The weather is too rough for a sea crossing. It would be best to check out the boardwalk first, then Land’s End.</p><p><b>AUTHORITY</b> – Abandoning a lead because of a little snow and wind? Preposterous! You’re a supercop. You’ll swim to those islands if you have to!</p><p><b>VOLITION</b> – Love the enthusiasm. But you’ll be a <em> dead </em> supercop if you do that, so I’ll go with Multi-face’s suggestion.</p><p><b>BATHTUB</b> – The prospect of leaving this warm bath fills you with dread. You slouch into it until only the top half of your head remains above water.</p><p><b>YOU </b>– Five more minutes.</p><p><b>VOLITION</b> [Formidable: Success] – No. Bathtime’s up. Take a quick shower and get dressed. You have a double-homicide to solve.</p><p><b>DRAMA</b> – And a dude to save!!!</p><p> </p><p><b>YOU</b> – The thought of Kim jolts you into action. You drain the tub, turn on the shower, and grab the soap—</p><p><b>BAR OF SOAP</b> – An ocean-breeze-scented ivory bar, almost fresh from the box. The word “MONSIEUR” is etched on its surface. This isn’t your soap.</p><p><b>ESPRIT DE CORPS</b> [Challenging: Success] - Revachol General Hospital. Trant and a doctor talk quietly in the doorway of the hospital room. On the bed, an injured officer lies on his side and pretends to be asleep.</p><p><b>HALF LIGHT</b> - It's his fault. It's <em> all </em> his fault. He should've told you about the letter. He shouldn't have been there. He—</p><p><b>EMPATHY</b> [Formidable: Success] - He did it for you.</p><p><b>HALF LIGHT</b> – Did what?! Fuck up your plans? Fuck up Kim’s trust in you? Fucking useless piece of—</p><p><b>YOU</b> – Stop it.</p><p><b>HALF LIGHT</b> – But—</p><p><b>YOU</b> – <em> Stop it </em>.</p><p> </p><p><b>BAR OF SOAP</b> – You lather yourself quickly. The shower rinses off the suds from your body in an act of absolution.</p><p><b>VOLITION</b> – What’s done is done. Nothing left to do but to push forward.</p><p><b>YOU </b>– At last, you switch off the shower and step out of the tub. Water drips from your naked flesh. You feel like a new man.</p><p><b>CONCEPTUALIZATION </b>[Easy: Success] - An apt simile. Water symbolizes death and rebirth in many Insulindian cultures. Welcome to your second life!</p><p><b>VOLITION</b> – It looks a lot like your first life. Except you’re naked and dripping.</p><p><b>ELECTROCHEMISTRY</b> – <em> Great </em> start. </p><p> </p><p><b>TOWEL RACK</b> – A pair of fluffy towels are draped over the towel rack. Grabbing one, you uncover a familiar, multi-colored neck accessory that’s draped between them like a venomous snake on a branch.</p><p><b>HORRIFIC NECKTIE</b> – Yo, bratan! Long time no see.</p><p><b>YOU</b> – What are <em> you </em> doing here?!</p><p><b>HORRIFIC NECKTIE</b> – Me? I’m just hanging out here with my best buds! Say hello, guys!</p><p><b>TERRY THE TOWEL</b> – Yo, how you doin’?</p><p><b>PERRY THE TOWEL</b> – You’re dripping wet, pal. Come on...Bury your face into my soft, cottony, 650-gsm body. I’ll dry you up nice and good.</p><p><b>VOLITION</b> – Great. Of all the towels you could have gotten, it had to be the pervy one.</p><p><b>ELECTROCHEMISTRY</b> – Come on, Perry! Soak up all this man-juice!</p><p><b>REACTION SPEED</b> [Easy: Success] – You dry yourself off with the speed of light. No human being has, or ever will, dry themselves off as quickly as you did.</p><p> </p><p><b>HORRIFIC NECKTIE</b> – So how’d your date go? Did that shitty bowtie of yours help you bang that smoking-hot piece of ass?</p><p><b>FAILURE OF A BOWTIE</b> – A dejected silence emanates from the dirty pile of clothing on the floor.</p><p><b>HORRIFIC NECKTIE</b> – Ha! That’s what you get for wearing that cum-stained midget instead of me!</p><p><b>LOGIC </b>– To be fair. Even if you wore every single piece of clothing you own, things would’ve still gone south last night. </p><p><b>SAVOIR FAIRE</b> – Speaking of clothing, what outfit are you planning to wear?</p><p><b>COMPOSURE</b> – The warmer, the better. I suggest the polar anorak or the FALN windbreaker.</p><p><b>HORRIFIC NECKTIE</b> – Hey, I was still talking—</p><p><b>PERCEPTION</b> – The snow would make it difficult to spot clues on the ground. Wear something that will boost me.</p><p><b>LOGIC </b>– VC takes precedence, of course. You’ll need it to identify which of the B-positions is the correct one.</p><p><b>HORRIFIC NECKTIE</b> – Hello? I’m right here—</p><p><b>VISUAL CALCULUS</b> – The lounge trousers? Or maybe the office shades...</p><p><b>LOGIC</b> – The trousers are more effective. And they pair well with—</p><p><b>HORRIFIC NECKTIE</b> – ME!!! Pick me, goddammit!!!</p><p>
  
</p><p><b>YOU</b> – Hmm. What do you guys think?</p><p><b>LOGIC</b> – No. The winter scarf’s a better choice. You’ll need Empathy for that call with Sylvie.</p><p><b>HORRIFIC NECKTIE</b> – Fuck that scarf! Shit’s about to hit the fan, bratushka, and you’re <em> screwed </em> if you don’t bring me along!</p><p><b>HALF LIGHT</b> [Easy: Success] – The ugly tie sounds scared. Real scared.</p><p><b>INLAND EMPIRE</b> – An ominous feeling fills you as you look at the tie. Sparks—no, flames erupt behind your eyes. The sizzling of flesh. An inhuman scream.</p><p><b>LOGIC</b> – You know what? Maybe you should wear that tie after all.</p><p><b>YOU</b> – After a moment’s hesitation, you drape the tie over your neck. It smells faintly of ocean-breeze soap.</p><p><b>HORRIFIC NECKTIE</b> – Hell yeah! You won’t regret this, chief!</p><p> </p><p><b>YOU</b> – Rolling your eyes, you wrap the towel around your waist.</p><p><b>PERRY THE TOWEL</b> – Don’t worry, pal. The family jewels are safe with me!</p><p><b>PERCEPTION (TASTE)</b> – By the way, your mouth tastes like a radioactive sewer. Mind brushing your teeth before you go?</p><p><b>YOU</b> – Ugh. Good idea.</p><p>You turn towards the sink—</p><p><b>MIRROR</b> - The sink’s destroyed. Half of it’s been torn away, as if by a raging beast. Steam fogs the mirror above it. You cannot see yourself, only the shadow of a man.</p><p><b>HALF LIGHT</b> – Don’t look don’t look <em> DON’T LOOK </em>—</p><p><b>YOU</b> – Hand trembling, you reach out and wipe the glass.</p><p> </p><p><b>MIRROR</b> – A corpse leers at you from the mirror. Blood-bloated flesh sags from its cheeks. Its mouth is a skull-grin of despair. Its face is your own.</p><p><b>BLOATED CORPSE OF A DRUNK</b> – Hello, Harry-boy.</p><p><b>VOLITION</b> [Legendary: Success] – <em> TAKE OFF THE DAMN TIE!!!! </em></p><p><b>YOU</b> – With a cry of horror, you fling off the tie from your neck and hurl it to the floor.</p><p><b>HORRIFIC NECKTIE</b> – What the fuck???!!! The hell did you do that for???</p><p><b>YOU</b> – <em> I’m </em> the one who’s supposed to be asking you that!!!!</p><p><b>MIRROR</b> – You glance at the mirror. There is no corpse—Only your pale, panting face. </p><p><b>HALF LIGHT</b> – Fucking snake!!!! Flush it down the toilet!</p><p><b>HORRIFIC NECKTIE</b> – Bad idea, pal! I’ll clog up the pipes so bad, shit’s gonna shoot out of the toilets!</p><p><b>LOGIC</b> – Scarf?</p><p><b>YOU</b> – Scarf.</p><p><b>HORRIFIC NECKTIE</b> – Wait!!! I can help you save Kim!</p><p><b>SUGGESTION </b>– It’s pulling your leg. Don’t listen to it.</p><p><b>HORRIFIC NECKTIE</b> – Bratan, bratushka, brother of mine, I swear I’m not shitting you. Look, you don’t even have to wear me! Just put me in your pocket! You won’t see a thing, nuh-uh, I promise!</p><p><b>DRAMA</b> [Formidable: Success] – The necktie is truly not shitting you, sire.</p><p><b>INLAND EMPIRE</b> [Formidable: Success] – Bring it with you. <em> Please. </em></p><p><b>YOU</b> – Like a snake wrangler handling a cobra, you pick up the tie and hold it away from your body. </p><p>If I see anything weird again, I’m throwing you into the nearest trash can, you hear?</p><p><b>HORRIFIC NECKTIE</b> – Gotcha, chief!</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>On a small, snowy yard between a fence and a roofless shack, Idiot Doom Spiral—disgraced ad man, former high-net-worth individual, and self-proclaimed spokesperson for the Union of Moribund Alcoholics—rubs his hands in front of a flickering fire.</p><p>“Mind throwing in a few newspapers, Rosie? Getting some serious blue-balls here.”</p><p>“Aye, sure thing!” Rosemary takes some tattered dailies from the small pile of of trash beside him and feeds them to the fire. “That’ll be two real!”</p><p>“Hey, <em> I </em> collected that pile of tare, man! You should be the one paying <em> me </em>.”</p><p> </p><p>“Don’t call Abigail!” Don’t Call Abigail cries out. “Don’t...call her...”</p><p>Doom Spiral and Rosemary look at the now-snoring pipe, then at each other.</p><p>Rosemary scratches his head. “You, uh. Want a pilsner, pal?”</p><p>Doom Spiral places his hand atop his Lickra (TM)-clad chest. “Why, Rosie. It would be my honor to accept your booze.” He jerks his thumb at the pipe. “Give one to Abby too. I’ll cover his tab.”</p><p>“Come on, Spiral-Boy. You know I don’t keep tabs.” With a grunt, Rosemary stands up and waddles over to the half-full crate of Potent Pilsner by Abby’s pipe. He takes three bottles and distributes them to his comrades. “Cheers?”’</p><p>Doom Spiral cracks open his beer with their communal, totally-not-stolen bottle opener. “Cheers!” He takes a swig. Everything goes warm and fuzzy. </p><p>“Hm.” He smacks his lips and studies the bottle. “Low-concept, but I guess it’s better than nothing.”</p><p>“Low-concept?” Rosie splutters. “You know what’s low-concept? Bein’ sober!”</p><p>“Abby! Abby? Abbyyyyy...” Don’t Call Abigail says in wholehearted agreement.</p><p> </p><p>Doom Spiral’s about to take another drink when he sees someone approaching from the fishing village. A guy wearing a flashy jacket and some kind of green hat...</p><p>“Someone’s coming!” He gestures frantically to his colleagues. “Get into position!”</p><p>According to the Pan-Insulindian Almanac (’51 edition), the fastest creature on Elysium is the Vaasan falcon, which has a diving speed of 390 km/hour. Unfortunately, the almanac is mistaken, for no falcon—Vaasan or otherwise—is faster than a Revacholian hobo in the presence of an incoming sucker. In an accidental fuck-you to the laws of physics, all 112.82-kg of Rosemary somehow crosses the 1.5 meters between him and his bench in the blink of an eye, a feat made doubly impressive by the fact that he didn’t spill a single drop of beer while doing so.</p><p>The rest of the Union assumes their own pre-sucker poses. Doom Spiral glugs down his pilsner until only an eighth of it is left, just enough for—let’s say, a long-winded story about a certain ad executive who encounters a series of mishaps that causes him to descend into an irrevocable spiral of poverty and homelessness. He also double-checks his tracksuit pocket, where the Social Charity Assistance Money (TM) envelope is tucked away like a loaded firearm. For his part, Don’t Call Abigail contributes to their group’s over-all ambiance of wretchedness by lolling out his tongue and gasping, “Downth...caw...heeeee...” while a puddle of drool forms under his cheek.</p><p>“You know the drill,” Doom Spiral says. “I’ll handle the pitch, you guys handle the wares.”</p><p>Rosie gives him a thumbs up. Abby goes, “Abigaaaaaairr...”</p><p> </p><p>A boot steps into view. With the joyful opportunism of a man who’s mastered the art of the hustle, Doom Spiral springs into action. </p><p>“You! Hey, you!”</p><p>The rest of the guy emerges from behind the shack, and Doom Spiral locks gazes with...a pair of google eyes?</p><p>He shakes his head rapidly to clear the booze-fog from his vision. It works. The googly eyes turn into a green froggy hat perched on top of the guy’s head. The rest of him comes into view too: a pair of blue office-shades perched in the middle of a ruddy face framed by mutton-chops, all bundled up in a scarf that makes Doom Spiral’s neck itch just by looking at it. The guy’s jacket looks nice and warm, though. It looks awfully familiar too. Like...like....</p><p>“You okay, Spiral-boy?” Rosemary whispers.</p><p>But Doom Spiral doesn’t hear him. All he hears is the patter of rain. His own panting breath. The jangle of keys in his pocket—</p><p>Something clatters to the ground. Startled, he looks down and sees the remains of his beer trickling out of the bottle that he’d just dropped.</p><p> </p><p>“Uh. Were you talking to me?” says the man responsible for this tragedy.</p><p>The rain stops falling. Doom Spiral lifts his head beholds, once again, the magnificent FALN Faln Windbreaker that sent him reeling back through time.</p><p>His hands start to tremble. He shoves them into his pockets and forces a smile.</p><p>“Yeah, man! Don’t you remember us? We’re your old pals, Doomie, Rosie, and Abby!”</p><p>The man frowns, just like every other person who’s been on the receiving end of Operation: “Hey There, Ol’ Buddy!” (TM).</p><p>“Sorry,” he says. “But I’m pretty sure I’ve never met you guys before...”</p><p>Doom Spiral clutches his chest with mock hurt. “What? You’ve forgotten about us already?! After all those nights we spent listening to your woes and drinking to your good health???” He looks at Rosie. “Can you believe it, Rosie? He just forgot about us!”</p><p>“Wait a minute, Doomie,” Rosie says, mouthing off from the script that they’ve been inflicting over the past seven months on unsuspecting pedestrians, “I think we’ve got ourselves the wrong guy!”</p><p>“What?” Doom Spiral peers at the stranger and gasps. “Holy shit! You’re right! I’m so sorry, man. Thought you were someone else!”</p><p>The guy relaxes, which is a mistake, since Doom Spiral and his pals are just getting started.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s okay.” To Doom Spiral’s delight, the sucker actually shoots them a wink. “That friend of yours must be real handsome if he looks like me!”</p><p>The Union erupts with laughter (or in Abigail’s case, a barrage of amused snores).</p><p>“You bet he is! Tell you what? Rosie here’s got some primo booze. Why don’t you sit with us and have some?” Doom Spiral scoots over and pats the empty space beside him. “I’d feel bad if we just let you go off without a proper apology.”</p><p>Frog-Hat looks at the bench, then at the abandoned boardwalk to the west. “Thanks. But I’m in a hurry...”</p><p>“Come on, captain! Have a bottle of piss with us!” Rosemary says.</p><p>“Pilsner,” Doom Spiral clarifies.</p><p>“That’s what I said! Piss!”</p><p> </p><p>The guy scratches his nape. Doom Spiral’s eyes lock onto the FALN Ultra Series Gloves on his hands.</p><p>“Maybe some other time. I’m in the middle of a—”</p><p>He cuts off. Then, he looks at his left jacket pocket, frowning.</p><p>Doom Spiral and Rosie exchange looks.</p><p>After a few seconds, Frog-Hat sighs. “Fine.” He looks at Rosemary. “You’re Rosie, right? Do you sell any...uh, <em> special </em> booze?”</p><p>Doom Spiral and Rosie exchange another glance. Doom Spiral scratches his right cheek. Rosemary gives him a curt nod.</p><p>“Aye, I sell all kinds of stuff, friend!” he tells the sucker. “Come on over and I’ll show ya!”</p><p> </p><p>Frog Hat narrows his eyes. Doom Spiral and Rosie adopt matching expressions of innocence. Mouth flattening into a thin line, Frog Hat turns his attention to the soot-stained log that Doom Spiral’s sitting on. Doom Spiral quickly sweeps away most of the soot and presents the slightly-less-grimy seat with a hand flourish. <em> Ta-dah </em>.</p><p>The guy still doesn’t look convinced, but he takes his seat anyway. Mere inches separate the glossy, waterproof fabric of his jacket from Doom Spiral’s grubby fingers...</p><p>“What’s his story?” Frog Hat says, jerking his head at Abby’s pipe and interrupting the stealthy trek of Doom Spiral’s right hand across the log.</p><p>“You mean Abby? Not really sure, to be honest,” Doom Spiral says as his right hand scuttles back to his side and hops into his tracksuit pocket. “But if I had to guess, it might have something to do with a gal named Abigail.”</p><p>“ABIGAIL?!” Don’t Call Abigail jerks awake. He looks around in panic, then blinks at them with crusty eyes.</p><p>“False alarm, Abby,” Doom Spiral says. “Just introducing you to our new friend over here.”</p><p>Frog Hat waves at Abby. Abby gives him a slow, sleepy nod, then spots the bottle of beer that Rosie left him. He picks it up and cradles it to his chest. “Don’t call her,” he tells Frog Hat. “Don’t call Abigail.”</p><p>He takes a swig of his bottle, then crawls back into his pipe. The snores restart a few seconds later.</p><p> </p><p>“Poor guy,” Frog Hat mutters. “Was Ab—er, <em> she </em> his wife?.”</p><p>“Wife, girlfriend, sister, daughter...Could be any of those.” Doom Spiral picks up his fallen beer bottle and turns it in his palms. “Women are strange, man. One second they’re crawling into your lap, telling you how high-concept you are. Next thing you know, they’re breaking up with you because you brought the wrong keys to your evening jog and got locked out of your own apartment!”</p><p>Frog Hat nods slowly. “Riiiight.” He clears his throat and looks at Rosemary. “Mind showing me that special booze now?”</p><p>Rosemary grins. “Right you are, captain!” He grasps the lapels of his coat and throws it open. Frog Hat whistles.</p><p>“That’s a great coat. I’ve never seen one with so many pockets before.”</p><p>“Sewed ‘em myself! Guys like us live gotta keep our <em> necessities </em> with us at all times,” Rosemary pulls out a necessary bottle of Commodore Red from his coat. “Ain’t that right, Spiral-boy?”</p><p>“You got it, man,” Doom Spiral salutes him with an equally necessary (though empty) bottle of Pale Pilsner.</p><p>Frog Hat looks like he has a different set of necessities in mind, but he wisely refrains from commenting.</p><p>“You lookin’ for <em> special </em> booze? Well, have I got the thing for you,” Rosemary rummages around his coat of vices. “Voilà!”</p><p> </p><p>He holds up a bottle of blue liquid. Its unearthly glow illuminates their awed faces.</p><p>“Why is it glowing?” Frog Hat asks.</p><p>“Beats me. But that’s probably what you get when you mix 98.7% pure alcohol with plutonium. ANYWAY,” he waggles the bottle in front of Frog Hat’s horrified face. “This is top-of-the-line shit! And it can all be yours for the low, low price of 300 reál!”</p><p>Frog Hat’s jaw drops to the floor.</p><p>“300 reál??? You want an arm and a leg to go with that?”</p><p>“Why not!” Rosemary crows. “Limbs like yours’ll fetch a pretty penny in the market!”</p><p>Idiot Doom Spiral jumps in to do some damage control. "My colleague here is kidding. I'm sure he'll be willing to give you the alcohol without any need for self-mutilation."</p><p>“But he’s the one who—”</p><p>Doom Spiral coughs loudly. It may or may not have sounded like, “SAY YES!”</p><p> </p><p>“I mean, yeah!” Rosie says. He chuckles nervously. “Just pullin’ your leg, friend! No limbs needed. Cold, hard cash will do!”</p><p>It doesn’t take a former ad executive to see that Frog Hat’s having Second Thoughts about this whole deal. Doom Spiral’s about to offer him a 10% discount when he has an idea so dazzling, so momentous, so fucking <em> brilliant </em> that he almost adds a fresh layer to his shit-stained tracksuit. </p><p>Grinning, he pats Frog Hat on the shoulder. 100% synthetic fabric glides beneath his palm like element-proof silk. “Actually. Rosie here’s willing to give you that bottle of booze for <em> 3 </em>reál—”</p><p>Rosie frowns. “I am?” Doom Spiral winks at him. “Oh. Uh. Aye!”</p><p>“—if you’re willing to extend some material assistance to us poor, homeless folk,” Doom Spiral gestures sadly at Abigail’s pipe. “Poor Abby’s freezing in there. We’ve been doing our best to keep him warm, but alas. Newspapers can only do so much.”</p><p>“The booze helps too!” Rosie chimes in. “Folks say alcohol makes you freeze faster. But we’ve been here for two winters, and we still have most of our toes and fingers!”</p><p>“What my colleague means to say,” Doom Spiral continues, “is that we’d appreciate anything that could help us keep Abby here on this side of the abyss for a while longer.”</p><p>Frog Hat looks at Doom Spiral, then at the filthy hand on his shoulder.</p><p>“You want my jacket?”</p><p> </p><p>Doom Spiral gasps in horror. “Your jacket?! Why, perish the thought! We’d never presume to part you from this 100% synthetic, high-performance, element-proof outerwear! I mean, sure, it’ll probably keep Abby warm for twenty more winters,” He brushes off a speck of snow from Frog Hat’s sleeve, “but it’s not like his<em> life </em>is on the line or anything.”</p><p>To his delight, Frog Hat seems to be seriously considering his non-proposition. Doom Spiral worms a hand behind the guy’s back and gives Rosie a thumbs up. His colleague replies with a gap-toothed smile.</p><p>“Hey, Mister...Doom Spiral, is that right?” Frog Hat asks.</p><p>“The one and only!”</p><p>“If I gave you something else that could keep you guys warm, can I still have the discount?”</p><p>“Depends,” Doom Spiral says. “What do you have in mind?”</p><p> </p><p>Frog Hat zips open his windbreaker and takes out a stainless steel thermal bottle. “Well, I just happen to have a tumbler of fresh vodka-borscht from the Whirling with me, and—“</p><p>Rosemary thrusts the bottle of medicinal spirits towards him. “IT’S YOURS! GIMME THE BORSCHT!!!”</p><p>Doom Spiral leaps between them. “Woah woah woah!” He narrows his eyes at Frog Hat. “How do we know that you’re not shitting us?”</p><p>Shrugging, Frog Hat opens the tumbler and pours out a steaming, red liquid into the cap. He offers it to Doom Spiral, but—in another feat of supersonic speed—Rosie grabs it and downs it in one gulp.</p><p>“Hooooo boy,” Rosie closes his eyes ecstatically. His face glows beet-red. “This is the real deal, alright.”</p><p>Doom Spiral’s gaze darts between Rosemary’s rosy face and Frog Hat’s jacket. A war breaks out among his members— The pro-jacket camp, led by his frontal lobe, tells him that if he doesn’t get that FALN windbreaker now, he’ll never get one ever again, and he’ll be stuck in this inexplicably decaying orbit of personal failure forever. The pro-Borscht camp, led by his not-quite-cirrhotic-but-definitely-getting-there liver, tells him that he’s stuck in this doom spiral anyway, so he might as well accept Frog Hat’s offer and spend the rest of the afternoon wallowing in a warm, happy, borscht-induced haze. Delayed gratification versus immediate gratification. The slick ad-man that he used to be versus the deadbeat alcoholic that he is today.</p><p>After milliseconds of vicious fighting, one side pummels the other into submission and claims its prize.</p><p> </p><p>“Deal,” he says. “We’ll take the borscht.”</p><p>Frog Hat grins, and Doom Spiral realizes that for all his slick talk, it’s him and his pals who got turned into the real suckers around here.</p><p><em> Eyes on the prize friend! </em> his liver crows happily. <em> Time to get shit-faced! </em></p><p>The borscht and the bottle of medicinal spirits change hands. Frog Hat tucks the glowing booze into his jacket, and Rosemary pours a cupful of red ambrosia for Doom Spiral. “Drink up, boy! Gotta chug it down while it’s hot!”</p><p>Doom Spiral looks into the cup. His haggard face looks back at him from burgundy depths. He throws his head back and downs everything in one go.</p><p>“Ho-ly <em> shit </em>!!!!” he says, as the booze sloshes in his belly like a sea of fire. “Where have you been all my life, baby???”</p><p>Chuckling, Rosemary takes the empty cup from Doom Spiral’s buzzing fingers. “This shit’s legendary,” he tells Frog Hat. “One mouthful’s enough to warm your bones, even in the dead of winter.”</p><p>“I believe you,” Frog Hat says. Rosemary offers him a fresh cup of borscht. He waves it away. “Do you guys hang around here often?”</p><p> </p><p>"We're here all the time. Nothing like fresh sea air all day. Besides, Abby here never leaves his pipe,” Doom Spiral says, patting Abby’s concrete sanctuary. “Gotta roll him around if we wanna get him anywhere. Huge chore, unless you're decked out like me," he flexes his scrawny, Lickra (™) - bound biceps.</p><p>“Or me!” Rosemary slaps his formidable beer belly.</p><p>Frog Hat tilts his head. “That so? My friend and I passed through here last Monday morning, but we didn’t see you guys...”</p><p>The sea of warmth in Doom Spiral’s belly freezes over. Rosemary’s cup halts midway to his mouth.</p><p>“You probably just missed us, man,” Doom Spiral says. “We head out to collect tare all the time. No man can live on booze and camaraderie after all.”</p><p>“Aye,” says Rosemary. The cup resumes its trek and dumps its payload into his mouth. “We go off at odd hours too. What time did you and your friend come over?”</p><p>“We passed by here twice. Both in the early morning," Frog Hat says. He blows on his fingers. “You guys wouldn’t know anything about the car accident, would you?”</p><p> </p><p>Tapping into the same talent for bullshit that enabled him to sell bogus ideas to gullible investors, Doom Spiral frowns and says, “Car accident? Did you hear anything about a car accident, Rosie?”</p><p>“Nope, not at all!”</p><p>“Huh.” Doom Spiral turns to the pipe. “What about you, Abby?”</p><p>“Please...please don’t...” A muffled sob. “Don’t call ‘er....”</p><p>“Sorry man,” Doom Spiral shrugs helplessly. “Probably happened while we were out gathering tare. I’d have loved to see it, though! Would’ve made a <em> great </em> story.”</p><p>“I see,” Frog Hat says. Those spectacled eyes linger on Doom Spiral’s face for a few seconds. “Do you like stories, Spiral?”</p><p>“Sure, I do! Telling stories is how we pass the time around here,” Doom Spiral says. Rosemary passes him a cup of borscht; he sips it to calm his nerves. “You wanna hear about the FALN Headless Rider? Or maybe the Lost Cocaine Skull?”</p><p>“Ask Spiral-boy here how he got his name,” Rosemary tells Frog Hat. “Saddest tale I’ve ever heard. Not counting Abby’s, of course,” he says, nodding towards his prone comrade.</p><p> </p><p>Frog Hat smiles. “Actually, I was thinking of telling <em> you </em> guys a story. To celebrate our newfound friendship and all.”</p><p>Doom Spiral glances at Rosemary, who shrugs.</p><p>“Sounds good to me,” says Doom Spiral. “Though I’m worried that the borscht might run out in the middle of your tale. Why don’t we summon some reinforcements?”</p><p>Right on cue, Rosemary heads to the crate of beer and retrieves four bottles. “’Fraid I’m gonna have to humbly ask for a charitable contribution for these, friend. You got the special booze for free, after all.”</p><p>Frog Hat pulls out a slim leather wallet. “This enough?” The ten-reál bill between his fingers flutters in the breeze.</p><p>“Aye! That’ll do real nicely.” Once the bill is safely tucked away in Rosemary’s pocket, he distributes the pilsners among them and plops back to his seat. “I dunno about you guys, but I’m ready for storytime!”</p><p>Doom Spiral salutes Frog Hat with his pilsner. “Same here. Take it away, Froggie!”</p><p> </p><p>“Alright,” Frog Hat rests his elbows on his knees, beer dangling from one hand, and looks around their little circle. “Before I start, I just want to say that this story’s a work of fiction. So if any of the characters happen to resemble real people, living or dead, it’s just a coincidence.”</p><p>Doom Spiral grins. “Don’t worry, man. We’re a bunch of hobos, not a firm of lawyers. No one’s gonna sue you around here.”</p><p>“Glad to hear that. You guys smell <em> much </em> better than most of the lawyers I know.” Laughter, guffaws, and knee-slapping. “So. Let’s start.”</p><p>"The story's about three homeless guys. Probably around...” he studies each of their faces and takes a shot in the dark, “your age. Depending on who you ask, they’re either the unluckiest or the luckiest men in Revachol. Sure, they’ve all been dealt a shitty hand. But they just threw down the cards and decided to live life on their own terms. No rent. No bosses.” He glances at Don’t Call Abigail. “No wives.”</p><p>“It’s a cold night in March. The three of them are drinking beers around a fire, tired from a long day of collecting tare. Suddenly, they hear footsteps. Two guys emerge from the night. Tough guys. Guys who’ll stomp your teeth in if you even look at them wrong. The hobos know who they are—hell, <em> everyone </em> knows who they are, ‘cause these two aren’t just any ordinary goons. They’re part of the biggest, meanest gang in town.” He pauses dramatically. “ <em> The Lardy Boys </em>.”</p><p> </p><p>Beer sprays out of Doom Spiral’s nose.</p><p>“Holy shit! You okay, Spiral?!” Rosemary says as Doom Spiral tries to hack out the liquor that’s stuck in his sinuses. “Here, use this!” A balled-up handkerchief hits Doom Spiral square in the forehead, which wouldn’t have hurt, if the hanky didn’t have an exoskeleton made up of the various, unnameable fluids that Rosie has hawked, snorted, and expelled throughout the years.</p><p>“The—” Doom Spiral stammers after he’s coughed out a lung. “The Lardy Boys?!”</p><p>Frog Hat nods solemnly. “Yep. Named after their head honcho, Linus Lardy. Can I continue, or—”</p><p>To be honest, Doom Spiral would rather drink beer through his nose again than hear the rest of this story. But since making prudent life decisions has never been his strong point, he just waves a hand and tries to find a slightly-less-disgusting spot on Rosie’s hanky that he could use to wipe the mess of beer, snot, tears, and cold sweat from his face.</p><p> </p><p>“So as I was saying, the Lardy Boys approached our trio of intrepid protagonists. The leader of the hobos, the bravest of them all, asked them what the hell they wanted. Or maybe he offered them a bottle of medicinal spirits at a really steep discount in exchange for one of their jackets. Anyway,” Frog Hat continues, “the Lardies reassure the hobos that they’re not here to beat them up. No sir. They’re just here to ask them, very nicely, to go somewhere else until the next day. You see, they’ve heard a rumor that something was going to happen in the area. Something bad. Really bad. So for the sake of public safety, they’re asking everyone to lock their doors and pull their curtains. Or, in the case of our homeless heroes, find another place to lay their heads.”</p><p>“The hobos huddle together to talk about this. On the one hand, the Lardy Boys are probably going to kick them out of their spot no matter what. On the other hand, one of them’s passed out in a pipe, and they’d have to roll him around if they wanted to go anywhere. Then the Lardies sweeten the deal: If the hobos leave, they’ll get a nice present.” Four pairs of eyes, one belonging to a froggy-hat and the other belonging to a human X-ray, swivel around to look at the crate of beer beside Abby’s pipe. “A full crate of Pale Pilsner, courtesy of Linus Lardy and his boys.” He takes a sip of his beer. “The end.”</p><p> </p><p>Snowflakes sizzle in the fire. A chill wind blows in from the sea, and despite the impressive amount of alcohol that’s running through Doom Spiral’s system (or precisely because of it), his hands tremble around his beer.</p><p>“That’s one hell of a story, Froggie. The ending needs some work, though.” He raises the bottle to his lips, but it’s already empty. “Ah, fuck.”</p><p>“Aye,” Rosemary says, with considerably less enthusiasm than when the story started. “Should’ve told us if the guys took up the offer or not.”</p><p>Frog Hat shrugs. “True. I haven’t thought out that part yet.” He smiles; fire glints off his canines. “You guys have any ideas about the ending?”</p><p> </p><p>Doom Spiral feels Rosemary’s eyes on him. Even Abby’s snoring quiets down.</p><p>“I might have a few suggestions.” He raises his empty bottle. “But I’m all out of fuel, so...”</p><p>Rosemary becomes three reál richer. Doom Spiral guzzles down a third of his new beer to boost his (ha!) spirits.</p><p>“So,” says Froghat, “you had some ideas you wanted to share?”</p><p>“Yeah. But before we get to the ending, I wanna spice up your tale by adding something at the beginning. A prelude, if you will.”</p><p>The whole world falls silent in anticipation. Doom Spiral sips his pilsner, then leaps into the abyss.</p><p>“Let’s rewind. The Lardy Boys haven’t come along yet, and our three handsome protagonists are huddled around their little fire, swapping tales of woe. Now, this sets up the stage quite nicely, but what if we added an ominous detail to build the tension? Something like...” He gestures vaguely. “A gunshot, for example.”</p><p> </p><p>Frog Hat’s eyebrows shoot up. Doom Spiral takes another sip of pilsner to hide his smirk.</p><p>“Interesting.” Frog Hat’s voice sounds measured, as if it were treading on thin ice. “And what direction would this hypothetical gunshot have come from?”</p><p>“Good question. What do you think, Rosie? Where did—I mean, where <em> would </em>that mysterious gunshot have come from?”</p><p>Rosemary glances between them, clearly befuddled about the whatever word-game Frog Hat and Doom Spiral are playing. Despite this, he lifts a dirt-encrusted finger and points to the boardwalk.</p><p>“There,” he says. “It came from there.”</p><p> </p><p>Frog Hat stares at the direction Rosie’s pointing at. “I see.” He stands up slowly. “Thanks for the company, guys. But I gotta go. Any other details you wanna share?”</p><p>“Yeah, just one more. You asked how the story could end, right?” ” Doom Spiral says. “Well, I think the bums take up the Lardies’ deal and make themselves scarce till the afternoon of the next day. They spend the next few days enjoying the crate of beer they got from the Lardies. Then, just when they were about to run out of pilsner, a savior appeared. A kindhearted saint who empathized with their plight and gave them enough cash to get through the next week.”</p><p>He whips out the Social Charity Assistance Money (TM) envelope from his pocket and grins.</p><p>“Any idea who that could be, officer?”</p><p> </p><p>“’Ey, Spiral-boy,” Rosemary whispers once Frog Hat’s jogged off to the boardwalk. “Why’d you tell ‘im all that? The Hardies are gonna kill us!”</p><p>Doom Spiral finishes counting the bills in the envelope, then tucks it into his pocket. “Don’t worry, Rosie. The Hardie Boys don’t stand a chance against that guy. Besides,” he shrugs, “I can always just tell them a new story.”</p><p>“Don’t call her,” Don’t Call Abigal sobs. “Don’t call—”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Sylvie Malalaika gets the call at exactly 5:30 PM.</p><p>She’s in the kitchen, spooning out a canful of Munchies Magnifique (Extra Chunky Tuna Flavor) into a red ceramic bowl when the phone rings. This shouldn’t have startled her—She’s been expecting this call since Sunday, after all. She’s dreamt about it, lost sleep because of it, slept on the couch for the past four nights anticipating—no, dreading it. But despite everything, the spoon still flies from her hand and clatters to the floor, spattering tuna-flavored mystery meat all over her kitchen tiles.</p><p>Something brushes against her leg. She screams. Her cat, Molly, blinks up at her, then starts licking tuna bits off the floor.</p><p><em> It’s okay </em> , Sylvie tells herself as her heart thrashes against her ribcage. <em> It’s okay. You’re ready for this. You know what to say. </em></p><p>The ringing continues. She peels herself off the kitchen counter and approaches the phone as if it were a bomb. Or a loaded gun pointed straight at her—</p><p>She’s right beside it now. Close enough to pick up the receiver. Close enough to see her pale, distorted reflection on its glossy plastic body.</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em> Pick it up, Sylvie. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> You can’t keep running forever. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Her hands shake. She balls them into fists, then picks up the phone.</p><p>“Hello?”</p><p>“Good evening, miss,” a man replies. “May I speak to Sylvie Malalaika?”</p><p>A full-body tremor goes through her at the sound of her name. She grips the receiver with both hands to keep it steady.</p><p>“This is Sylvie. Who’s this?”</p><p>“Hello, Sylvie. I’m Detective Harrier du Bois from the RCM.” In Sylvie’s dreams, the cop’s voice always sounded rough. Brash. Accusatory. But the voice in her ear right now is warm. Gentle, almost. “I got your number from Lawrence Garte, the temporary bartender—”</p><p>“Cafeteria manager,” she says, smiling a bit as she imagines Garte’s indignant face. “Not bartender. He’s my boss, actually.”</p><p>“Oh. No wonder he looked so upset,” the cop says, with what sounds like genuine embarrassment. “I’ll have to apologize to him later.”</p><p>“Okay. How can I help you, officer?”</p><p>“Hm? Oh, right.” The cop clears his throat, and in her mind, Sylvie sees a middle-aged man with a beer paunch and a jolly red face at the other end of the line. “I was hoping to ask you if you knew anything about the car accident that happened in Martinaise last...hold on,” the rustling of pages. “Sunday night. Garte told me that you were tending the bar that night. Is that correct?”</p><p>“That’s right. But I’m afraid I don’t know anything about the accident, officer.” The lie passes through her lips so easily that she almost believes it. “What happened?”</p><p>The cop sighs. “A tragedy. Two people got killed. We’re guessing it’s a DUI, but we just wanted to cover all the bases. Mind if I ask you more questions, miss? I promise not to take up too much of your time.”</p><p>Sylvie consults her mental script. “Of course. I’ll do my best to help.”</p><p> </p><p>She spends the next few minutes playing the role of cooperative, yet anxious, civilian. The cop’s questions range from standard procedure (“Could you state your name, age, and birth date, miss?”) to hair-splitting (“Could you tell me what you were doing between 16:00 and 0:00 that Sunday? Including the exact times, if possible.”) to completely irrelevant (“Why does Garte like stuffed birds so much?”). She answers them all with ease.</p><p>“Well, I think that’s most of it,” the detective says, to her vast relief. “I just have one more question, if it’s alright.”</p><p>Sylvie’s never encountered such a polite policeman before. It almost makes her feel bad to lie to him. Almost.</p><p>“Yes, go ahead,” she says.</p><p>“Thanks, Sylvie. Okay, let’s see...” The rustling of pages again. “Did King and Queen enjoy their stay in Room 3?”</p><p> </p><p>Sylvie almost drops the phone.</p><p>“P-pardon?” she hears herself ask.</p><p>“Did King and Queen enjoy their stay in Room 3?” the cop repeats slowly.</p><p>At this point, Sylvie’s aware that she has several answers to choose from. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” for example. Or, “King and Queen? Who are they?” Good answers. Safe answers.</p><p>But instead, what she stammers out is, “How...How did you know?”</p><p> </p><p>“I talked to Ace,” the cop says, and Sylvie knows that he <em> must </em> be lying, because Ace would never— “He didn’t give me a straight answer. But I’ve gathered enough pieces to know that something bad happened in Room 3. Something so bad that the Hardie Boys had to step in, and the bartender on duty that night had to take a week-long leave.” He pauses. “Sylvie, please. Tell me what happened.”</p><p>The world starts to sway. Sylvie braces herself against the side table, willing her body to stop shaking. It refuses to obey her.</p><p>“I can’t.” Her voice breaks. “I’m sorry, but I can’t...I can’t tell you.”</p><p>Silence from the other end. Then, “Is it because of Titus Hardie?”</p><p><em> We’ll take care of this, Sylvie </em> , Titus had said. <em> Go home. And when the cops come calling, just tell them we were the ones who— </em></p><p>“No,” she says. “This isn’t his fault. I...I have to go. I’m sorry.”</p><p>“Sylvie? Sylvie, wai—“</p><p>She hangs up. Closes her eyes. Takes a long, deep breath.</p><p>Then she opens her eyes, and sees blood on her hands. </p><p> </p><p>“It’s not their fault,” she murmurs. “It’s mine.”</p><p>The phone rings again. This time, Sylvie doesn’t answer. </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>This fic just hit the 100K mark. Congratulations for reading two novels' worth of words, everyone! XD</p><p>1) Harry's outfit for this chapter:<br/>- Amphibian Sports Visor (Per +1)<br/>- Neat Office Shades (+1 Visual Calculus, -1 Drama)<br/>- FALN Faln Windbreaker (+1 Pain Threshold, +1 Half Light, -1 Drama)<br/>- Army Surplus Winter Scarf (+2 Empathy, -1 Composure)<br/>- FALN Arrower Shirt (+1 Hand-Eye Coordination)<br/>- FALN gloves (+1 Half-Light)<br/>- Saramirizian Lounge Trousers (+2 VC, +1 Kingdom of Conscience)<br/>- Franconigerian Cavalry Boots (+1 Per)</p><p>2) The <b>S</b>ocial <b>C</b>harity <b>A</b>ssistance <b>M</b>oney (TM) Envelope. Get it?</p><p>3) Thanks to <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lepak/pseuds/Lepak">Lepak</a> for the name of Molly's cat food!</p><p>Hope you enjoyed the humor in this chapter, folks! Because it's all going downhill from here.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0020"><h2>20. The Art of War</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> The Great Sage once said: </em>
</p><p>
  <em> The art of war is of vital importance to the State. </em>
</p><p>Ace stands outside the Bling-Bling Bonanza, dressed in his best suit. His tie is a black noose around his neck. He is halfway through his final cigarette.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> It is a matter of life and death. </em>
</p><p>The morning sun glints off his executioner’s rifles. One of them—Ruud, judging from the size of his gun—shifts his feet. A series of clicks, like teeth in a beggar’s can, crosses the twenty paces that stand between them and Ace.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> A road to either safety— </em>
</p><p>Snow swirls around them, fine as ash.  </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Or ruin. </em>
</p><p>Slowly, almost lazily, one of them lifts his free hand.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> It is governed by five constant factors: </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Heaven. </em>
</p><p>The mercenaries cock their rifles. Ace finishes his cigarette, holding the smoke in his lungs to savor the burn.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Earth. </em>
</p><p>He exhales. The charred corpse of his cigarette shatters on the pavement.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> The Commander. </em>
</p><p>A seagull screams in the distance. Ace breathes once. Twice. Thrice.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Discipline. </em>
</p><p>At the zenith of his fourth breath, Jack’s hand drops.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> And Strategy. </em>
</p><p>The explosion rips through the waterfront, obliterating an entire wall of the Bonanza. Jack and his crew vanish in a superheated cloud of dust and debris. Burning stuffed toys rain from the sky. A decapitated Man of Hjemdall figurine flies through the air and clatters to a halt by Ace’s feet.</p><p>Without waiting for the dust to settle, he exchanges the detonator for his gun, then strides into the smoke.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> These five heads should be familiar to every general. </em>
</p><p>He finds Ruud first. The beast is half-buried under a concrete slab, screaming gibberish under his helmet, arm twisted above his head like a wrung cloth. Ace shoots him in the eye. A few feet away, Phyllis crawls towards her rifle, dragging the bloody stump of her leg behind her. Ace blocks her path, then ends her agony.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> He who knows them will be victorious. </em>
</p><p>No sign of Jack. He was furthest from the blast, so either Ace got lucky or—</p><p> </p><p><em> He who knows them not will be </em>—</p><p>The bullet catches him in the temple.</p><p> </p><p>—<em> vanquished. </em></p><p> </p><p>Ace opens his eyes.</p><p>“Fuck you, Jack,” he mutters.</p><p> </p><p>According to the tenets of Dolorianism, the afterlife consists of two places: New Elysium—the heavenly kingdom where the blessed are welcomed by Irene the Navigator herself, where the streets are paved with precious stones, where suffering is but a distant memory, and death, a bad dream that flees with the first rays of the sun; and Inferno—a nine-tiered abyss where the damned are tormented by fire-breathing demons armed with pitchforks or, if they were aiming for a more personalized form of damnation, juvenile delinquents armed with spray paint and pinball machines.</p><p>But instead of these delusions, Ace finds himself—for the fourth time in the past hour—in an afterlife that looks a lot like his living room. No bespectacled queens, or devils with pointy farm implements. Just a bespectacled man with a loaded gun, sitting on a ratty couch while the day dies around him. </p><p> </p><p>He slips off his glasses and rubs his eyes. He’s always found them exhausting, these mental rehearsals. A casual observer would have just seen him sitting there with his eyes closed, gun cradled in his lap like a dozing cat. But as far as Ace’s body—that dumb, scarred beast of burden—is concerned, he’s been triggering bombs, executing mercenaries, and of course, dying horribly, for the past hour. It now bellows its displeasure through a migraine that stabs red-hot pitchforks into his eyeballs, which leads Ace to suspect that he might be in Inferno after all.  </p><p>They learned how to do this as children. Ace remembers the four of them—King, Queen, Jack, and himself (this was before Joker’s time)—sitting on the floor of their training room, legs aflame with pins and needles beneath their growing bodies while their instructor, a gnarled tree of a man, taught them how to wage battle in their minds. The trick, he said, is to fool your senses. Make them believe that you are in the battlefield, that your opponents are flesh and blood, that their blades and bullets will sear and scar, that death will be slow, painful, and final. You must know your opponents, of course. Their moves and mannerisms, their feints and follies, the hidden shivs in their boots, the poisoned blades up their sleeves. Then you must know yourself. A far more difficult task—Many would rather chop off their limbs than confront their own weaknesses, but those who do the latter live far longer than those who do not. Finally, you must know the battlefield: the weather, the terrain, the choke points, the ambush sites, the detritus scattered around that can be wielded as weapons. Once you know all three, sit in a quiet spot with your eyes closed—just as you’re doing now, children, the old man had said—then pit them against each other.</p><p>If you lose, do it again. If you win, do it again. But this time, win <em> faster </em>.</p><p>Ace has not yet won. Therefore, he will do it again.</p><p> </p><p>His notebook lies open before him. He glances at his watch, then jots down his latest failure.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Attempt No. 4 </em>
</p><p><em> Time elapsed: 11 mins. (est.) </em>.</p><p><em> Targets: 2/3 </em>.</p><p><em> Cause of death </em>...</p><p> </p><p>He taps his pen against his chin.</p><p><em> Carelessness</em>, he writes.</p><p> </p><p>It’s true. He could have won, or at least survived longer, if he’d paid more attention. Jack had been wearing a full suit of armor, for god’s sake. Ace should have heard him clicking like a sack of castanets before that shot.</p><p><em> X J ASAP </em> , he scribbles under the column labelled “Notes” <em> . Unless R&amp;P still OK after TNT. </em></p><p>The dynamite that currently frames the interior of the Bling Bling Bonanza’s display window is a gift from the Debardeurs’ Union, courtesy of Mr. Evrart Claire. The fact that he gave it while Ace had a gun pointed at his flabby face doesn’t diminish the poignancy of the gift, or its usefulness. After all, the Great Sage once said, “When you are outnumbered by your foes, fuck them up by blasting them to smithereens.”</p><p>Not his exact words, but Ace prefers that translation.</p><p> </p><p>It’s getting dark. He stands up to switch on the lights, pausing to listen to the din of domestic life that pulses through the decayed arteries of the Capeside Apartments at night. The clack and clatter of pots and pans; the gloop and gurgle of water through the pipes; barking dogs, creaking floorboards; slamming doors; and, hovering above them all like a flock of birds, the voices: men, women, children, crooning boiaderos, preppy popstars, frenzied TipTop announcers, talking, laughing, shouting, singing, weeping, arguing, moaning, cackling, rambling, <em> living </em>—</p><p>He used to find the noise unbearable. Now he basks in it, a drifter warming his hands in front of a crackling fire.</p><p> </p><p>Ace returns to the couch and picks up his gun. An Islav 920, double-action 9 mm Parabellum semi-automatic pistol—or Izzy, for short. Together, they have killed, maimed, and in one memorable instance, castrated, hundreds—if not thousands—of the Mazda’s enemies. Every night, he retrieves her from the velvet-lined mahogany box beneath his bed and gently lays her on his desk, where her courtiers—a white rectangle of cotton cloth, a tube of gun oil, a black cylindrical brush—stand ready to serve her. Ace cleans her with the precision of a surgeon and the tenderness of a lover: taking her apart, polishing her bones, brushing her flanks. She will be his only companion tomorrow. He tells himself that it will be enough.</p><p>Footsteps in the hallway outside, punctuated by a cough. Mrs. Cole, Ace guesses. The cleaning lady. A good friend of Kim's, who always makes sure to ask after her health whenever they see each other.</p><p>He checks his watch again. 6:15. Enough time to do five more tries, then grab a quick dinner before his second-to-the-last cigarette.</p><p>He rolls his shoulders, then stretches his neck. Cradles Izzy on his lap. Closes his eyes...</p><p> </p><p><em> The Great Sage once said </em>:</p><p>
  <em> The art of war is of vital importance to the— </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Someone knocks at his door.    </p><p>“Kitsuragi?” Mrs. Cole’s rasps. “It’s me, Martha.” She’s always insisted that Kim call her by her first name, a request that he has repeatedly, though politely, ignored.</p><p>Ace cracks open an eye. He doesn’t have time to talk to that old hag...</p><p><em> Don’t call her that </em>, Kim chides.</p><p><em> Well, well, well </em> , Ace replies, overjoyed. <em> Look who decided to show up. You done crying over that pig? </em></p><p>Kim says nothing, but Ace feels him settling once again at the back of their mind, a warm, solid presence that comforts him far more than any gun.</p><p> </p><p>Mrs. Cole shuffles around, and Ace imagines her squinting at his door as if it were a teenager who just tossed a gum wrapper in the hallway.</p><p>“He's not answering,” he hears her say. But to whom? “Now scram.” A barrage of coughs, capped off by the classic hawk-n’-spit. “This building won’t clean itself.”</p><p>“His lights are on though,” her companion says, and at the sound of that voice—the voice that crushed Kim’s lungs; the voice that flayed their shared consciousness as they lay awake last night, seething with anger, lust, and shame; the voice that neither of them, especially Ace, wanted to hear ever again—Ace experiences the mental equivalent of being yanked back and shoved into a broom closet.</p><p><em>Hey!</em> He throws himself against the barrier. <em>Kim?!</em> <em>KIM!!!</em></p><p> </p><p>As Ace hollers and rages in his subconscious, Kim tucks Izzy into his back pocket and pads to the door on cat-quiet feet.</p><p>“Maybe he’s busy,” Mrs. Cole mutters, barely audible over the roar of his own heartbeat. "Or maybe he just doesn’t want to talk to you.”</p><p>“I’ll wait here. I need to tell him—”</p><p>“No loitering in the hallways!” Mrs. Cole says, while loitering in the hallway. “I’m not gonna let you stay here and bother—” She coughs. “—bother these good...good—” The words are drowned out in a coughing fit so violent his door shudders on its hinges.</p><p>Later on, Kim will wonder what made him do it. Perhaps he had finally grown impatient towards his own cowardice. Or maybe it was concern for Mrs. Cole, who seemed to be in real danger of coughing to death on his doorstep. Or maybe it was the unbearable realization that this bronchitic old lady, who lived in a small, soot-stained closet beside the coal room, thought that he was, despite all evidence to the contrary, a good person whom she needed to protect from the police.</p><p>He opens the door.</p><p> </p><p>The scene that greets him is unusual, but not unexpected. Mrs. Cole is leaning against her broom, cheeks red with exertion as she presses a stained handkerchief against her mouth. And standing behind her, hand frozen between her shoulder blades and dressed in the single most juvenile outfit that Kim has ever seen on an adult human being, is the Human Can Opener, Harry Du Bois.</p><p>They lock eyes. Harry’s mouth drops open. Kim slips a hand behind his back and wraps his fingers around Izzy.</p><p>Firing one last cough into her handkerchief, Mrs. Cole clears her throat. “Evening, Kitsuragi. Didn’t mean to bother you.”</p><p>“Not at all. How can I help you, Mrs. Cole?” says Kim. He doesn’t look away from Harry.</p><p>“Call me Martha, dear,” she twitters, oblivious to the storm clouds gathering in the hallway. “This cop,” she spits out the word like a wad of phlegm, “wanted to see you. Didn’t want to tell me why. Didn’t have a warrant either—”</p><p>“The RCM doesn’t issue warrants,” Harry says, and the pungent stink of beer on his breath makes Kim wrinkle his nose.</p><p>“—so I didn’t let him in,” Mrs. Cole continues. “But then he kept hammering at the door like a ruffian, see? So I figured I’d let him in. Except I’ll keep an eye on him, make sure he doesn’t pull off any police brutality shit while he talks to you.” She jabs her broom at Harry, who flinches with terror at the prospect of being swept to death by a little old lady. </p><p>“It’s alright, Martha,” Kim says, using her first name for the first, and possibly last, time in the two years they’ve known each other. “I can take care of myself. Though I do wonder what this (<em>TWO-FACED PIG!!! </em> Ace yells) man wants from me.”</p><p> </p><p>“I just want to talk,” Harry says in the low, measured tone of a negotiator trying to defuse a hostage crisis. “About the case.”</p><p>Mrs. Cole squints. “Case? What case?”</p><p>“The one that I have nothing to do with,” Kim replies, his voice as cold and unyielding as the gun in his hand. “Now if you’ll excuse me—”</p><p>“I’ve solved it!” Harry blurts out. “I’ve solved it, Kim! I know what happened! I know why you—”</p><p>He halts, eyes darting to Mrs. Cole, who's more baffled than ever.</p><p> </p><p>“Solved what?” She frowns at Kim. “What’s he talking about, Kitsuragi?”</p><p>Kim scans Harry’s face. Looks into his eyes. Curls a finger around Izzy’s trigger...</p><p>“I’m not lying.” Harry’s eyes are as deep and solemn as the grave, and Kim is a fool for ever having trusted him.</p><p>“Go away, Harry,” he says. <em> I don’t want to kill you. </em>  </p><p>“No.” Harry squares his feet and stands taller, which would have been intimidating, if it weren’t for his froggie hat. And his FALN windbreaker. And his riding boots. Everything that he was wearing, really. “I’m not leaving until you hear me out.”</p><p>Mrs. Cole jabs her broom at his chest. “Hey! He already said he didn’t want to talk!”</p><p>Kim considers his options. He could leave Harry out here, standing in the hallway, while he goes back to his apartment and continues preparing for tomorrow. Harry will not leave—that much is clear. Not even to go to the bathroom, which is disgusting, but entirely plausible. Kim will still have to deal with him tomorrow morning, though. Unless he sneaks out the window and crawls down the pipes, which will probably earn him a broken neck, or worse.</p><p>...Or he could invite Harry into his apartment, hear him out, then kill him.   </p><p> </p><p>Kim breathes once. Twice. Thrice.</p><p>At the zenith of his fourth breath, he lets go of his gun.</p><p> </p><p>“You can go, Martha,” he says. “The detective and I need to talk.”</p><p>The cleaning lady purses her lips. “Are you sure?”</p><p>Kim places a hand on her shoulder—the very same hand that had been holding Izzy earlier. “Yes. I’m sure.”</p><p>Mrs. Cole glances between him and Harry, her watery eyes still narrowed with suspicion.</p><p>“You’d <em> better </em> not try anything funny,” she shakes her broom at Harry’s face. “Or I’ll...I’ll—” Her voice tightens, and Kim, sensing an incoming barrage of coughs, gently takes her by the arm and shepherds her down the corridor.</p><p> </p><p>“Quite the security detail you’ve got around here,” Harry says when he returns.</p><p>“She’s ferocious,” Kim pulls Izzy out of his pocket and holds her at his side. “You’re lucky you’re still alive.”</p><p>“Yeah,” Harry glances at the gun. There is no fear in his eyes. “I know.”</p><p> </p><p>They gaze at each other for a long while. Further down the corridor, a radio blares out a slow, sad song that reminds Kim of sunsets and solitude. He looks at Harry’s face, tracing with his eyes the contours of weariness that have appeared there overnight, and sees a reflection of his own exhaustion.</p><p>“Are you armed?” </p><p>“No.” Harry raises his arms. “You can frisk me if you want.”</p><p>Kim does. It’s all clear, until his hand lands on a bulge in Harry’s jacket, right above his waist.</p><p>“Oh, sorry.” Harry unzips his windbreaker and takes out a bottle of blue liquid. “Just some booze that I bought from a bum down the coast.”</p><p>“Why is it glowing?”</p><p>“Plutonium.”</p><p>“Right.” A dozen questions flit through Kim’s mind—<em> Why did you buy it? Isn’t plutonium radioactive? Why are you dressed like a walking mid-life crisis? </em>—but instead, he finishes frisking Harry and, disappointed that he didn’t find anything, gestures to his apartment. “Go in. And take off the damn hat.”</p><p> </p><p>Harry obeys, meek as a lamb being led to the slaughter. They take their seats at the dining table, where Harry’s frog hat engages Kim’s Islav 920, lying on the table but still pointed at Harry’s chest, in an intense stare-off. It occurs to Kim that twenty-four hours ago, they were seated across from each other just like this, their hands brushing as they waged war on a borrowed Suzerainty board. How time flies, he thinks.</p><p>“Where’s your partner?” </p><p>“In the hospital,” Harry says. Then, “He was acting on his own, when he snuck in here. I didn’t—”</p><p>“You didn’t know,” Kim finishes for him. “Yes, you mentioned that last night.”</p><p>Harry searches his face. “You don’t believe me.”</p><p>Kim lets that fact hang in the air for a moment. Then he leans back in his chair and crosses his legs. “You said that you solved the case.” He has never wanted a cigarette more badly in his life than he does right now.</p><p>Harry nods. “I know what happened that night, Kim,” he says. “I know who you’re trying to protect.”</p><p> </p><p>Kim does not flinch. He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose with a hand that does not tremble.</p><p>“Bullshit,” he says quietly.</p><p>“I know who killed Queen,” Harry continues, rushing headlong into the abyss. “I don’t know who killed King, but...” He reaches into his pocket and takes out two photographs. “You might.”</p><p>Kim eyes the photos with suspicion. He can’t see them from here, so for all he knows, Harry might just be lying to him again. Besides, the Hardies came up with nothing when they combed the area for any signs of King’s killer...</p><p>He taps the table. “Let me see those.”</p><p> </p><p>Harry shakes his head. “No. I want to strike a deal."</p><p>“In case you forgot,” Kim points his gun at Harry’s head, “you’re not in a position to make any deals.”</p><p>“Kill me then,” Harry says. “Get a pillow from your bedroom, if you want. I’ll stay right here.”</p><p> </p><p>In the face of this suicidal insanity, Kim has little choice but to lower his gun, if only because killing Harry now would mean giving him what he wants, and Kim is nothing but a sore loser. </p><p>“So what’s this deal?” Kim asks, barely keeping his irritation out of his voice.</p><p>Harry rests his elbows on the table, photos tucked against the crook of his arm. “I’ll tell you what I think happened at the Whirling last weekend. If I get it wrong, you can shoot me. But if I get it right,” he says, “you’ll run away with me to Konigstein.”</p><p>If Kim had been a weaker man, he would have burst out laughing. However, since he is himself, he just stares at the insane detective sitting across from him.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m sorry, but I think I misheard you."</p><p>“If I get it wrong, you get to kill me. If I get it right, you run away with me to Konigstein,” Harry repeats, dead serious. “Deal?”</p><p>Kim tries to regain his balance amidst the sea of absurdity that rocks his world. “Harry,” he says. “I can’t run away with you to Konigstein.”</p><p>“It doesn’t have to be Konigstein,” Harry says, because of course he would say that. “We can go to Mont Martin. Ozonne. Deora. Safre. Anywhere, as long as it’s not Revachol.” He pauses. “Or Mirova. Mirova’s no good either.”</p><p>Kim’s about to ask what’s wrong with Mirova, but he stops himself. Don’t encourage the crazy man, Kitsuragi.</p><p>“Look, I know I sound crazy,” Harry starts.</p><p>Kim nods.</p><p>“—but the bottom line is, we’ll get out of here. Alright? You and me. Somewhere far, far away.”</p><p>Suddenly, Kim is overcome by a vision of him and Harry, standing on a beach at the end of the world, gazing at the sunset while the waves lap against their feet and a breeze brushes against their linked hands…</p><p>It’s like the deduction game all over again, Kim realizes as the world continues to sway beneath him. He thought he could handle this, but he was wrong. No one can handle the Human Can Opener. Not Kim. Not Ace. No one. He should never have talked to Harry. He should never have let Harry into his apartment. He should never have—</p><p>“Kim,” Harry whispers. “<em>Please</em>.”</p><p> </p><p>He never should have fallen for this man.</p><p> </p><p>“Start talking,” Kim says. His voice does not tremble. “<em> Now </em>.”</p><p>Harry deflates. But then his eyes light up, as if he just realized that Kim had, in fact, not said no. </p><p>He drags his chair closer to the table and sits up straighter.</p><p>“It all started on Saturday."</p><p>
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  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>1) The lines from the Great Sage are adapted from Sun Tzu's "Art of War" (http://classics.mit.edu/Tzu/artwar.html). The description of New Elysium and Inferno are inspired by Christian eschatology and Dante's Inferno.</p><p>2) Imagine you're on a roller coaster. You've just finished climbing a hill, and now, you're at the very top, suspended in that quiet, dreadful second right before the plunge. </p><p>This chapter's that moment.</p><p>3) Also, you might have noticed that the chapter count's gone up to 27. I've always been bad at estimating how long these chapters end up being, so hopefully it doesn't go up further. (insert that uncool laugh-cry emoji here)</p><p>Hope you enjoyed this chapter! Thank you for reading! :)</p>
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<a name="section0021"><h2>21. The King of Spades (Part One)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>!!!<b><span class="u">WARNING</span></b>!!! This chapter contains the following:</p><p>- Animal death<br/>- Drug use<br/>- Graphic violence (war atrocities, executions)<br/>- Sexual relations between foster siblings</p><p>Reader discretion is advised.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>The LUM Fevre rips through the 8/81, a wolf of steel and chrome darting between drowsy herds of lorries. Its driver, a tall, broad-shouldered brick of a man, slouches in his throne and maneuvers the steering levers with the lazy ease of a man making love to his wife.</p><p>The backseat rustles, followed by two clicks. A small, flickering flame illuminates a pale face, a fringe of blonde hair, a cigarette dangling between cherry-red lips... </p><p>Both flame and face vanish in a cloud of smoke. </p><p>“Are we there yet?” the passenger asks.</p><p>“Almost,” the driver replies.</p><p> </p><p>They exit the motorway. Concrete barriers give way to scrub grass and rust-eaten posts. Even with the windows closed, the stink of fish and garbage oozes into the carriage like an unwanted guest.  </p><p>In the distance, a lump of darkness staggers across the road. A dog—or what’s left of a dog after cold, hunger, and exhaustion have gnawed its bones—totters on the asphalt. </p><p>Spurred by the scent of prey, the Fevre speeds up. </p><p> </p><p>A pair of metal dice dangles from the Fevre’s rearview mirror. They gently clack against each other as car accelerates—</p><p>A bump. A yelp. </p><p> </p><p>Neither the driver nor his passenger say anything. They both might have been smiling; but it’s too dark to tell.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>A tall man sits in a dark room, his denim-clad ass parked on a table overrun with rubbish—cigarette butts; beer bottles; empty pill containers; packages wrapped in brown paper, mounds of white powder spilling out of their slit bellies. Identical packages, stacked in waist-high piles, line the edges of the room like sandbags in a foxhole. His bare torso is a map of pain, a topography of suffering—on his left flank, a gouge deep enough to hold a thimbleful of whiskey. On his right shoulder, a constellation of cigarette burns, souvenirs from men long dead. Everywhere else, craters and scars where chunks of flesh have been torn away by knives, bullets, shrapnel, teeth. </p><p>His face is a slab of concrete. His eyes are the blue of a clear summer sky.</p><p> </p><p>Beside him, a film projector whirrs away, its single, luminous eye casting an army of ghosts on the wall. Bodies face-down in a ditch. A woman being dragged, kicking and screaming, into a canopy of trees. Two children, their naked bodies little more than sun-roasted skin stretched over bone, gazing at the camera with hollow eyes and fluid-filled bellies.</p><p>The man puffs on a cigarette. In the flickering light of the projector, the brass ring on his finger glints like a smile.</p><p> </p><p>Suddenly, the table jerks beneath him, shuddering violently for several seconds. Strange sounds, halfway between hacks and gurgles, erupt by the man’s feet. He ignores them.</p><p>The jerks weaken; the sounds grow fainter.</p><p>Eventually, they stop altogether. </p><p>A sour, pungent smell, familiar to any connoisseur of death, bleeds through the room. The man wrinkles his nose, but remains seated.</p><p> </p><p>The scene on the wall shifts. A platoon of soldiers trudge towards a huddle of huts like ants crawling to a discarded piece of bread. There are tanks strapped to their backs. Metal nozzles cradled in their hands...</p><p>Smoke rises from the man’s mouth and nostrils. </p><p>Without taking his eyes off the soldiers, he places his cigarette between his lips and unzips his fly.</p><p> </p><p>Someone coughs on his right. </p><p>“What?” he grunts, snaking his hand into his briefs.  </p><p>“Got a letter, sir,” a gruff voice says from the shadows. “From the Boss.”</p><p>The tall man rolls his eyes. But he pulls out his hand from his underwear and beckons the lackey over. </p><p> </p><p>Moments later, once the lackey has successfully navigated through the mess that covers the floor, which includes, but is not limited to, the rubbish that had been on the table as well as the blood, piss, shit, and splayed legs of a body whose head is wrapped in canvas and whose throat is crushed beneath a table leg, an envelope lands on the man’s open palm.</p><p>A quick examination reveals that the envelope is long, white, and blank, save for the seal on the flap. A stylized “M” in a crimson circle...</p><p>“Get outta here.”</p><p> </p><p>The lackey scuttles back into the dark corner from which he emerged. Meanwhile, the man eases his thumb under the flap and carefully undoes the seal. As he reaches into the envelope, the soldiers form a line facing one of the huts, tongues of fire flickering from their flamethrowers. </p><p>His fingers brush against a piece of cardboard. He pulls it out, raises it up to the projector’s milky light...</p><p> </p><p>The soldiers unleash hell on the village; ghostly flames dance on the glossy surface of the Ace of Spades.</p><p> </p><p>King grins.</p><p>“Fucking <em> finally </em>."</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Lely doesn’t remember much about the orphanage. But he does remember the car.</p><p> </p><p>It had been a big car. Much bigger than him and Raul. The driver had to lift them into it, and when they sat down, the seats had swallowed them up, and their stubby little legs didn’t even reach the edge. </p><p>He remembers running his hands over the seat covers, savoring the texture of the leather beneath his hands. Smooth and soft. Like the flanks of a pony. </p><p> </p><p>It had been a fast car too. The trees outside the window were in a green blur, and the clouds flowed past like foam on a swift river. Raul tried to stand on the seat to get a better view, but the tall man—the one with the scar on his cheek, who took them from the orphanage—told him to sit down. </p><p>Raul had obeyed. Even then, they both knew that they shouldn’t make that man angry. </p><p>Lely remembers craning his head to peek over the driver’s shoulder. The dashboard had been covered in a multitude of levers, gauges, buttons, dials. He’d never seen anything like it. </p><p>The man had noticed his interest. </p><p>“Do you like this car?” he asked, those cold steel eyes pinning Lely to his seat.</p><p> </p><p>Lely nodded. Beneath him, the car purred like a housecat. </p><p>The man’s lips twitched.</p><p>“You’ll get a car like this too,” he said. “If you work hard, and do as I say.”</p><p> </p><p>As it turns out, the man had been wrong. Lely didn’t get a car like that—He got a <em> better </em> one. Bigger. Faster. With leather seats that were as soft and smooth as the flanks of a stallion and an engine that purred like a tiger. </p><p>Did he work hard for it? Yes. </p><p>Did he do what his Father said? </p><p> </p><p>...Most of the time.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>A busy night at the Lausanne Aerodrome. Buses spit out entire families onto the curb; passengers haul trunks off motor carriages; porters shove carts piled high with bags through throngs of well-wishers; the air buzzes with shouts, laughter, sobs, the sputter of engines, the honking of horns. But all this fades into the background whenever an aerostat—those great, corpulent drones of canvas, hydrogen, and steel—ascends from or descends onto the airfield behind the terminal, their hooped bellies bulging with cargo, passengers, hopes, and dreams.</p><p> </p><p>King leans against the hood of the Fevre, puffing on his third Astra for the day, and squints at the large flight-schedule board outside the terminal. It tells him, in white, blocky letters, that the flight from Vredefort’s arriving at 20:45. He glances at his watch. Not too long now.</p><p>A flash of movement catches his eye. He looks up, and sees a slim man in a threadbare coat gliding past a knot of people in front of the arrival gate, harvesting wallets along the way. </p><p>King briefly contemplates joining the crowd, just to see if that guy would be stupid enough to steal from him. He hopes the answer is yes. He has five minutes to kill. And it’s been a while since he’s crushed someone’s fingers.</p><p>He straightens up, flicks away his cigarette, and smooths back his hair.</p><p> </p><p>The pickpocket doesn’t know this, but he owes the entirety of his personal and professional well-being to the woman who strides out of the terminal just as King’s about to step away from the Fevre. King spots her immediately. With her blonde hair, white coat, and white pantsuit, she stands out from the crowd like a crane in a pond full of frogs. </p><p>The headlights from a passing bus glint off her sunglasses. A cigarette dangles from her cherry-red lips.</p><p> </p><p>King is not a sentimental man. It had been beaten out of him a long time ago, along with his fear of death, his faith in humanity, and two of his back molars. </p><p>But the moment he sees her standing there, looking unfairly chic and put-together even after a ten-hour flight through the Pale, a surge of warmth—hotter and brighter than a thousand Co Hois—blooms through his tar-blackened lungs and makes him smile.</p><p> </p><p>It doesn’t take long for her to spot him. King likes to think that it’s because of the special bond that they share, or because he’s the best-dressed guy in the whole parking lot. But if he were honest with himself, it’s probably because of the Fevre, which sparkles behind him like a diamond in a patch of coal.  </p><p>The woman whom King loves takes her time crossing the tarmac. At the pedestrian lane, she looks both ways, waits for the traffic to pass, then strolls across the road, her silver suitcase clattering beside her like a dutiful dog. She’s a lot like that suitcase, King thinks. Sleek, compact, and capable of storing a surprising amount of deadly weapons in its silk undies. </p><p> </p><p>Before long, they’re standing face to face. This close, King can count the birthmarks on her cheeks. Breathe in the scent of her perfume... </p><p>“Queen,” he says.</p><p>She smiles. </p><p>“King.” Then, because she’s never been one for small talk, she goes, “I assume you got a card.”</p><p>King takes out the playing card from his pocket and holds it up between two fingers.</p><p>“Show me yours,” he says, “and I’ll show you mine.”</p><p> </p><p>A breeze blows through the parking lot, carrying the scent of exhaust and fuel oil. Queen tucks her hair behind her ear. </p><p>“And if I got you?” she asks. </p><p>King shrugs. “Then stop fucking around and get it over with.”</p><p>Queen studies him for a moment.</p><p>Then she holds out her hand, palm down, and flips it over. </p><p> </p><p>King whistles. </p><p>“Well, well. Will you look at that.” He shows her his card too. “Same card.”</p><p>“What a surprise.” The Ace of Spades disappears into Queen’s sleeve. She hands King her suitcase. “Let’s go. I want to get there before midnight.” </p><p> </p><p>She moves to open the passenger door, but King grabs her by the elbow and pulls her in. </p><p>“Good to see you, babe,” he murmurs when they part.</p><p>Queen smirks. “If I’d been wearing my special lipstick,” she says, “you’d be dead in an hour.”</p><p> </p><p>He opens the door for her. Then, once she’s settled in with her luggage, he climbs into the driver’s seat, revs the engine, and shoots out of the parking lot like a silver bullet aimed at the heart of Martinaise.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Lely didn’t know what to make of the girl, at first.</p><p> </p><p>She came in like the rest of them. Small, scared, dirty. “She’s from Oranje,” his father tells them while the little girl cowers behind his legs. “Just like you, Raul. Lely.”</p><p>He and his brother said nothing. Ace wasn’t there. He was in Villalobos, setting up a chain of pinball arcades and crushing everyone who stood in his way. The fact that he was doing that while just being one year older than Lely, who was still stuck at home doing goddamned heavy-weapons training, did nothing to improve their relationship.</p><p> </p><p>“Go on.” The Mazda pushed the girl towards them. “Greet your brothers.”</p><p>The girl hesitated. She looked up at Lely and Raul with big, brown eyes.</p><p>Raul smiled at her. Lely didn’t. He had enough shit to deal with, without having to babysit this twerp.</p><p> </p><p>The girl bit her lip, then said, “He-hello. Nice to meet you.”</p><p>She waited for them to answer. Behind her, the Mazda crossed his arms and waited too.</p><p> </p><p>Lely rolled his eyes. Fucking old man.</p><p>“Nice to meet you,” he grumbled. And, since he wasn’t that much of a bastard yet, he added, “Welcome home.”</p><p> </p><p>The girl smiled, bright and pure and happy.</p><p>They got along surprisingly well after that.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>“Whirling-in-Rags,” King mutters, looking up at the neon sign of the cafeteria. “Shitty name for a shitty place.”</p><p>Queen shrugs. “I like it.” Behind them, the Fevre’s engine hisses as it cools, specks of scarlet splattered all over its bumper. She points across the square. “You should see the name of the other place.”</p><p>King peeks around the corner, then grimaces. “The Bling Bling Bonanza—Holy fucking shit, babe, we gotta burn that place down!”</p><p>“Blow it up,” Queen says wistfully.</p><p>“Smash it to pieces.” King says, grinning. “Wipe it from the fucking map.”</p><p>“As much as I agree with you, that disgrace rakes in more cash than all of our other arcades combined, so it’s off-limits.”</p><p>King knows that, but he pouts at her anyway. It’s like seeing a wolf making puppy-dog eyes. Or a crocodile rolling over and asking for a belly-rub.</p><p>Queen pats his cheek, her brown eyes warm and fond beneath her sweep of her hair. “You’ll get to smash things soon, baby. But first—” She nods at the front door. “Let’s grab something to eat.”</p><p> </p><p>The cafeteria’s interior isn’t as shitty as King expects it to be. The tables look clean; the bar, well-stocked; the decor’s actually tasteful (except for that stuffed bird on the wall); and the floor is clear of drunk guys passed out in a pool of their own vomit. He gives it three out of five stars.</p><p>Silence falls over the room. As King sweeps his eyes over the dinner crowd, he spots nine bottles, seven knives, and at least six guns tucked into various waistbands.</p><p>Add ten more guns, he thinks. Then it <em> might </em> be a fair fight. </p><p> </p><p>Queen saunters towards the bar, heels clicking against the floor tiles, drawing all eyes to herself like a comet trailing across the night sky. King hangs back, content to let her have her moment of glory. And when he finally strolls after her, he shoots a conspiratorial wink at the diners, who promptly resume whatever it was they were doing before the two of them came in. </p><p> </p><p>The bartender watches them approach with a nervous look on her face. She’s pretty, in a plain, homey sort of way. King flashes her his least threatening smile. </p><p>“Uhm. Hi! Welcome to the Whirling,” the bartender says. “What can I get you folks?”</p><p>Queen glances at the bartender’s nametag. </p><p>“Hi, Sylvie!” she says in a bubbly voice that tells King that she’ll be playing Miss Oranje Disco Dancer tonight. His smile widens to a grin. Twice as fun as Katarzine Alaczije, and three times as prone to dying from a drug overdose than Little Miss Oranje Lit Major, Miss Oranje Disco Dancer is Queen’s most frequently used persona, and King’s personal favorite. </p><p>“Some food would be nice.” Queen taps her chin with a perfectly manicured finger as she studies the menu. “I’ll have spaghetti and a beer. What about you, babe?”</p><p>“I’ll have a steak dinner.” King slings an arm over her shoulder. Then, when he’s sure that Sylvie’s watching, he slips his hand down the front of Queen’s shirt and starts to fondle her right breast. “And<em> two </em>beers. If you don’t mind.” </p><p> </p><p>“Think she knows about him?” Queen murmurs, adjusting her shirt front while a red-faced Sylvie relays their orders to the cook. </p><p>King catches a couple of guys giving them the fish-eye. “They <em> all </em>know about him.” He cracks his knuckles. “I’ll let you handle this, babe. Don’t wanna smash things up too early.”</p><p>Queen nods. She waits for Sylvie to return with their beers, then twirls her hair with a finger, smiling her best smile, and says, “By the way, Sylvie. Do you know where we can find a mechanic around here? We hit a huge pothole on the way here, and our engine started making this weird noise…”</p><p>Sylvie eyes the Fevre parked outside the window, and King guesses, correctly, that it’s the most expensive thing she’s ever seen in her entire life. “Well...there’s a mechanic who lives nearby. But I don’t know if he takes calls at night—”</p><p>“Everything okay, Sylvie?”</p><p> </p><p>King turns around. </p><p>They say that when two alpha wolves find themselves in the same territory, they will know, just by sniffing the air, about the other’s presence. Then the hunt begins—a deadly dance where the wolves converge upon each other in smaller and smaller circles until they collide, inevitably, in a frenzy of jaws, claws, and blood.</p><p>And so when King sees the newcomer—a brawny guy wearing a red cap and a sports jacket, with the mien of a general and the stone-solid physique of a slugger—the beast within him bares its fangs and howls with delight, eager to crush, maim, <em> destroy </em>...</p><p>“It’s okay, Titus,” Sylvie says. “They’re just looking for a mechanic.”</p><p><em> Titus </em>. King pops the name into his mouth, rolls it around his tongue, then carves it, approvingly, into the graffito-stained walls of his mind.  </p><p> </p><p>Queen’s looking at Titus too, with the thinly veiled interest of a cat studying a new plaything.</p><p>“A mechanic, huh?” Titus says, crossing his arms, seemingly oblivious to their rapt attention. “Something happen to your car, Miss...?”</p><p>“Klaasje,” Queen lies. She places a hand on King’s arm. “And this is my friend, Lely.”</p><p>King bares his teeth at Titus.</p><p> </p><p>“...Right,” Titus eyes him warily, then shifts his attention back to Queen. “I’m Titus. I know a thing or two about cars, so I can go take a look at your machine, if you want—”</p><p>King hops off his chair. “Woah woah woah. Sorry, pal. I ain’t gonna let someone who knows ‘a thing or two about cars’ touch my ride. We need a professional.” And, since he’s been such a good boy the whole night, he smirks and adds, “Doubt we can find one in this shithole, though.”</p><p>Titus’ lips press into a thin line. </p><p>“Tough luck. ‘Cause the only mechanic in this shithole—” Irony drips from the word, “is off-duty now. So you’re gonna have to wait ‘till tomorrow if you want him to check out your car.”</p><p>King shrugs. “Fine by me. You okay with that, babe?” </p><p> </p><p>Queen sips her beer. </p><p>“Yeah.” She smiles, her eyes still fixed on Titus. “I can live with that.”</p><p> </p><p>“That went well,” Queen says, after they’ve checked into Room 3. She walks over to the bed, runs her hand over the sheets. “We might have more fun here than I thought.”</p><p>King nods, slipping off his shoes, then his jacket. “That Titus guy. Think he’s fucking Ace?”</p><p>Queen laughs. “God, I hope so.” She sits on the bed and leans back on her hands. “If anyone needs to get laid in this entire universe, it’s our dearest brother.” </p><p>“They’d have to get that stick out of his ass first, though.” </p><p>“I dunno,” Queen smiles impishly. “They’ll be putting another stick into it anyway. So why bother?”</p><p>King tilts his head. Good point.  </p><p> </p><p>“Well, babe. You handled ‘em like a pro, as always.” He yawns, then falls into the bed face-first, groaning against the linen. “God, I’m fucking <em> wiped</em>.” </p><p>A lithe hand strokes his scalp. “Too wiped to fuck?” </p><p>He opens one eye. Sees Queen smiling, her lips as red as cherries. Thinks about long, dark nights, alone in his bed…</p><p>He reaches for her. Cradles her cheek in his palm.</p><p>“Nope.” He grins. “Always up for that.”</p><p>She leans into his touch, her breath ghosting over the small hairs on his arm. But when King sits up to kiss her, she places a hand on his chest.  </p><p> </p><p>“Hold on.” The mattress bounces as she stands up, leaving King confused and forlorn. He watches Queen pad over to her suitcase, now parked on the floor at the foot of the bed. She rummages around, then takes out a small orange bottle. “Gotta take our vitamins first.”</p><p>She tips out two pills onto her palm, throws her head back to swallow one. Then she places the remaining pill on her tongue, kneels on the bed and crawls towards him. </p><p>Grinning, King surges forward and claims her mouth. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Seven hundred meters away, on the roof of an abandoned industrial building, a lone figure adjusts their grip on their binoculars and sighs.</p><p>They’re fucking. Of course they’re fucking. The two of them haven’t seen each other in months. They’re probably gonna be fucking all night long, like jackrabbits on fucking speed... </p><p>Eyes glued to the binoculars, the sniper licks a finger and raises it up. Wind dances across the roof, cold and salt-tinged, scattering refuse and flapping their coat.</p><p>They lower their finger, disappointed.</p><p>Tucking the binoculars into their coat, the sniper hefts their rifle, stalks over to a ruined wall, the remains of a stairwell entrance, and sits beside it. The sky is beautiful tonight. A field of diamonds on a sheet of velvet. They gaze at it hungrily, devouring the moon and the stars with large, shining eyes.</p><p>Then, as an afterthought, they reach into their pocket and pull out a playing card.</p><p>Not tonight, they think. But soon.</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>And just like that, this fic is a year old! </p><p>Thank you, everyone! It's been a tough year for all of us, and this fic (and its writer) wouldn't have been able to make it this far without your support. So really--thank you!</p><p>And don't worry. I'm not going to let this fic turn two years old. XD </p><p>Next chapter: King and Queen meet the mechanic, and everything goes to hell.</p>
        </blockquote><div class="children module" id="children">
  <b class="heading">Works inspired by this one:</b>
  <ul>
    <li>
        <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26506138">The Day After</a> by <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/nicpic/pseuds/nicpic">nicpic</a>
    </li>
  </ul>
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